


This is the Way the World Ends

by maisy_daisy



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst with a Happy Ending, College, Complete, Dark Academia AU, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kandreil - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Murder and mystery, Polyamory, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, angst and comedy and whatnot, by mature content I mean that there's an emphasis on darker themes if that makes sense, cheesy literature references, dark/mature content, exy exists but not a focus, long fic, see each chapter for content warnings, we got murder we got romance we got horrible taste in fashion babes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 172,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maisy_daisy/pseuds/maisy_daisy
Summary: This is the way the world endsNot with a bangBut a whimperOr a Kandreil dark academia! au, in which the gang attends Foxborough University, a foreboding institute for the elite’s most problematic children. Everything is going expectedly bad until the newcomer arrives—then it gets worse. Neil Josten has low hopes and even lower expectations. He’s ready to leave one troubled world behind, only to fall into the arms of another. Or, to be more precise, two pairs of arms.
Relationships: Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (All For The Game), Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau, Katelyn/Aaron Minyard, Kevin Day/Andrew Minyard, Kevin Day/Neil Josten, Kevin Day/Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Matt Boyd/Danielle "Dan" Wilds, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Nicky Hemmick/Erik Klose
Comments: 441
Kudos: 289





	1. It Comes and it Goes in Waves

**Author's Note:**

> Title and poem in blurb from T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men”. See each chapter's beginning notes for content warnings. End notes contain citations and necessary credits for works that are not my own. Chapters will be updated in 1-3 chapter increments every Sunday unless otherwise stated. This work is not beta'd; all mistakes are my own, and I apologize in advance if there are some. As always, thank you for reading! Since this fic will be slightly more mature in content, please let me know if there are any other warnings you would like added.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Introduction to the End; A Farewell to the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mild s*icide/murder implications. brief mention of drug use. as always, please let me know if anything else should be tagged.

I.

It goes without saying that the world is loud.

Running cars, waking birds, angry children. The shout of a broken window, the laugh of a newly divorced accountant. Traditional chaos taken for granted. A phone rings. A pen clicks. A knuckle pops.

Life is loud, and the world demands it. Hoards it. Embraces it.

Noise is not only commonplace, it is expected. Such, it is impossible to separate the hard fact that is life from its stubborn bride, sound.

That’s why when the world ends, there is no bang. No clamor. No noise.

No warning.

II.

Depending on who you ask, the world never really ended. Others would tell you it never began at all. And like most deceptions, there is a thread of truth in each.

The day Seth Gordon’s world ended, thousands of others had yet to begin.

Not surprisingly, Seth’s last day was a beautiful one. In fact, it was rare to find any days that physically reflected the young man’s internal turmoil. Clear skies and apple scented air was standard weather. Sunshine as warm as honey was routine.

Seated in central South Carolina, Foxborough University--Seth’s current and only real home--was a prepossessing campus. To him, it was the height of grandeur. Though, that wasn’t saying much. The young man didn’t have much to compare such a title—if one counted run down children’s homes and sterile hospitals as worthy of comparison.The picturesque landscape was the first and only sight Seth ever fell in love with. And on his last day he was, for once, sober enough to appreciate it.

“Sunset.”

Seth turned to the voice. Its owner was almost as beautiful as the view before him. Lemon hair, eyes like fire. _Sunset_ , he agreed quietly. Allison Reynolds, a goddess in the humble flesh. If Fate or God or the Universe had granted him more time—one more week, perhaps one more day—he may have fallen in love with her too. But neither would ever know. He didn’t have more time, and he didn’t know that either.

“I missed you in class today,” she continued when he didn’t speak.

He shrugged. “Which one?”

On average, it takes around five minutes for the sun to fully set in the fall. Seth wondered what forces, if any, could make the inevitable finish faster.

“Econ. French.” Her lips quirked in a near smile. Oh gods, he’d kill for that smile. “I figured by lunch you weren’t going to show.”

Seth answered in the safest way he knew: another shrug. If he vocalized anything, he’d only hurt her. Pain is a vicious cycle, with talons and hooks and webs. It destroys more than the one who wields it; even more so, those who try to control it. Seth was done controlling.

“Will you come inside?” Allison asked. She shivered slightly in the breeze, but they both knew it was for show. _My beautiful actress._

“I’ll join you later,” he found himself saying before he fully decided to do so. “I just need some space alone. To think.”

“‘Think’?” she laughed. The sound was as bright as bells. “Since when?”

He didn’t return her amusement. Instead, he stared back out at the sprawling fields before him. The balcony on the fourth floor library was a prime spot on campus, and it wasn’t because of the book selection.

When she realized he didn’t plan on talking, she composed herself and made to leave. The princess of a crooked kingdom, he was the only person she accepted rejection from. Her hand rested gently on his forearm as she murmured a goodbye.

 _Goodbye, goodbye. Adieu, ma tempête._ The breeze may have been cool, but where her hand lingered, all he felt was fire. It burned his bones and churned his insides like a stewing cauldron. The air was a furnace, and she his stoker. He couldn’t breathe past the heat until she let go. Despite this, after she’d left, he craved that fiery touch stronger than the powder.

Sunset came, of course, five minutes and forty-six seconds later. There was not a fraction of noise to interrupt the star’s descent. And with it, the burning boy fell too.

By the time they found his broken body meters below the balcony, there was no question it was too late. It wasn’t yet sunrise, but it was obvious he’d been there awhile. The scene was quickly cordoned off and classes halted for the day. Students were ushered to avoid the library like a plague.

The boy had been dead long enough that the night chill had seeped into his clothes. But strange enough, as the medic carefully laid a sheet over Seth’s crumpled form, she could have sworn the air around him was hot to the touch. The medic was unfortunately used to death, but that didn’t mean each case made it any easier to deal with. When she went home that night to the soothing arms of her wife, she let herself cry for the young boy who’d never finish growing up. And the next day, when she helped assist a doctor to deliver a crying set of twins, her tears flowed again, unashamed.

Pain is a vicious cycle, but life’s is stronger.

Years before Seth Gordon took his last breath, a dangerous woman took her’s. That horrid day, the day Mary Hatford’s world ended, her killer’s life continued. _Ut solet._

Unlike Seth’s, this day was cold and unforgiving. Gray-grease skies worthy of a Dostoyevsky rendition mocked her shaking limbs. In this monochrome world, she left behind a body’s worth of blood and bones, and one hollow son.

“Ma-ma.” It was a whisper. A plea.A demand. “Ma- _ma_!” He spoke her name like a mantra. She did not answer.

When he burned her on the shores of California, he did not cry. There were enough tears in the ocean already. The crashing of the waves, brutal and objective, drowned out the sounds of his own heartbreak.

_Crash. Pull. Crash. Pull._

It was not long after when the boy realized he was no longer whole. On that California beach, two people did in fact die: the wife of a mobster and the son of a devil. But only one was reborn.

The day Nathaniel Wesninski’s world ended, another man’s life began.

And to his grudging surprise, the beginning was not as bad as the end. It was chaotic, sure. Bloody, of course. And so, so very loud.

The sirens came first. Then the gunshots. And finally, shaking in the chill of the desert night, a saving voice found the remains of Nathaniel Wesninski.

III.

Depending on who you ask, when the boy arrived to the Academy, it was not the beginning.

For most of Foxborough’s students, it was late November. Exam prep season. In other words, hell. The beginning was just as distant as the end.

For Seth Gordon, it had been the end for quite a long time.

For Allison Reynolds, there was no more timeline. Only _Before_ and _After_. She didn’t know which part was worse.

For Kevin Day, it was the middle of everything. Middle of life, middle of class, middle of another crisis.

And for Andrew Minyard, well.

There was no beginning. There was no end.

The story hadn’t started yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Citations will be included in the end notes of each chapter.  
> For this one:  
> Chapter title from Dean Lewis' song: Waves  
> Style of anaphora ("Depending on who you ask...") directly inspired by Maggie Stiefvater in her The Raven Cycle series  
> "Two died/One reborn" directly inspired by Leigh Bardugo's Six of Crows duology


	2. We'll Laugh Until Our Ribs Give Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-Reciprocations; Notes; Needs  
> It's a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: su*cide implications; an*iety attack; suggestion of drug use

I.

Fingers clenching. Breaths hitching. Lips swelling.

The world stops.

Lungs shaking. Tongues touching. Hearts beating.

The world starts.

“ _Here_?”

“Yes.”

“ _Is this_ —”

“Yes.”

Another touch; another turn around the sun.

Revolution, his lips say.

Resurrection; another day.

Somewhere nearby, and so far at the same time, a phone rings. It goes ignored for an impressive three seconds before the bodies untangle. Annoyed.

Heads turn, searching. Bingo. The source of the interruption lies stubbornly on the common room table, next to forgotten backpacks and ignored textbooks. The first man stares dumbly at the ringing device. His hands stay clenched at his sides from where they remained obediently moments before, desperate tethers despite the end.

“Well?” The other speaks, voice artificially flat. “It won’t answer itself, Kevin.”

Said man nods slowly. Up-down, up-down. “I know.” He still makes no move to get up. “It’s not important.”

“You don’t know that.” False indifference gives itself away when the other presses his lips back to Kevin’s neck, reclaiming their rightful place. “Answer it.”

“Andrew—”

“Now.”

Kevin sighs but does as told. When he finally is standing, phone in hand, he considers declining and getting back to business. Until Andrew’s voice hits him again. “Kevin.”

Oh Laevinus, once forced to admit defeat at the Battle of Heraclea. Give us strength.

In such likeness, Kevin is unable to avoid the inevitable. He grabs the phone and holds it to his ear. “What?”

“I’m doing great, thanks for asking.” The soft laugh at the other end makes Kevin want to crush the phone. He virtuously does not.

“Hi, Nicky.” Kevin shuffles back over to the couch and flops down. “Didn’t ask, still don’t care. What do you want?”

“Snappy,” Nicky tutts, unfazed. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Kevin sighs. Named after an alumnus of the Academy, Mort Claire common room, normally busy with activity, is for once mercifully empty. Cashmere sofas and Turkish ottomans litter the space, the same ones Kevin must drag himself from in the next ten minutes. He’d much rather not spend such time preoccupied with an overzealous phone call.

“Sorry, that was uncalled for. I’m kinda busy.”

Andrew scoffs next to him. In the mere seconds since they’d parted, the blonde has managed to pull out some book to amuse himself with. One distraction left for another. Typical.

“ _Oh_?” Nicky hums. Damn him. Even over the phone, Nicky’s grin is as loud as the Juan Gabriel music he unashamedly plays at all ungodly hours. “Is the Minotaur there?”

“Nicky,” Kevin admonishes. “Don’t—”

As if on cue, Andrew’s bored gaze flits up from his manuscript. Kevin can just make out the title; a copy of Aristotle’s _Ethics_ neither man care for. In Andrew’s hands, the book is more an ironical prop than a serious endeavor.

“It’s fine, I’m his cousin,” Nicky is saying. As if such relation authorizes any and all forms of degradation. “Anyway, I need a tutoring favor.”

Kevin briefly has a flashback from Nicky’s previous “favor”. It involved a broken exy racquet (a tragedy), theater notes (about tragedy), and a pair of frighteningly tight leggings that were a tragedy waiting to happen with Nicky’s flexible form. Swallowing down bile, he groans out, “What?”

Two minutes and one headache later, Kevin hangs up. He waits momentarily for Andrew to ask him what the phone call was about, until remembering that’s not how the stubborn disaster operates. At twenty-one years old, Andrew has the observational skillsof a demigod and the overall interest of a rock. Andrew probably heard most of the conversation and gave half a shit about it, at best.

And by the flat but strained expression on his face, the half a shit Andrew _does_ give isn't happy about Kevin's new schedule. They're going to have to raincheck the plans they made.

“Nicky’s dumping another student on me,” Kevin offers since Andrew won't pretend to ask.

“I pity the fool.”

Despite himself, Kevin smirks. “I meet them later tonight. I know we can't go to that bar you wanted, but I don’t suppose you’d like to still hang out after I’m done?” The bar was more like some edgy poetry slam center. Andrew and he enjoyed making fun of the participants until they got inevitably bored and left to satisfy...other pleasures. Consider it, foreplay, if you will.

Andrew, whose gaze continues to remain absorbed in his text, doesn’t offer a response. Which, of course, is answer enough. The tides and flows of his interest perpetually waver, never stuck in the same stream for long. One minute, Kevin is the axis around which Andrew centers; the next, he may as well be out of Andrew’s orbit for the time being.

Revolution; revolution. Vive la révolution.

“Andrew—”

“No.”

Kevin’s hand freezes from where it hovers next to Andrew’s shoulder, fingers halting millimeters before the charcoal scarf. He retracts.

Ten minutes until takeoff? He may as well not waste his time if this is the sudden atmosphere. “Okay. I have to get to practice. My tutoring thing is after… I’ll see you later, then?”

Andrew turns the page in his book. Slow. Deliberate. Stubborn.

"I don't want to bail, I swear," Kevin says. "But I need to tutor for my volunteer hours. We can still meet after."

Nada. The silent treatment continues.

Resolutely, Kevin nods to himself. He gathers his backpack and practice bag to leave. Fine. Superb. If he can manage a full schedule of honors courses coupled with collegiate exy and theater, he can handle his not-boyfriend’s cold shoulder.

Not-boyfriend.

Is there a term for that? Friends with benefits, possibly? ‘Friends’ may be an unorthodox term for their relationship, though. It’s more than simple friendship. But _boyfriend_ itself is just taboo.

The expression is not a term in Andrew’s vocabulary. Kevin used to think it was because of Andrew’s job, some “super-secret-if-I-told-you-I’d-have-to-kill-you” kind of deal. He doesn’t know anymore about what Andrew does on the sideline, and he’s not sure he wants to know. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. No one at Fox does anything good.

Mistakenly, he let himself believe this mysterious mission of Andrew’s just didn’t allow for commitment. But that wasn’t it.

Simply, there seems to be no such intimate relationship present to him, semantics aside. Only a convenient exchange of temporary gratification. As Andrew _himself_ had put it one day after an intense argument.

_You’re lying,_ Kevin had said. He still thinks it now. He _knows_ the way Andrew has seen him, has touched him, has held him. Despite what Andrew says, he lies. And that hurts more to Kevin because the truth is so painfully obvious but Andrew refuses to admit it.

Despite their understanding having continued on over a year, Andrew can’t seem to make up his mind whether he wants more or not.

_As if there’s anything more to give_ , Kevin thinks. _You have my heart. You have my body. You have everything._ Except…you don’t want commitment.

If Andrew _did_ hook up with someone on the side, at least he’d made it heartbreakingly clear to Kevin that he’d have every right to. Kevin can walk away if he couldn’t accept that, but Kevin won’t walk. Never from Andrew.

So it isn’t the absence of a label that eats away at Kevin’s self-esteem—after all, Kevin hasn’t seen any sign that Andrew’s been with anyone else at Foxborough anyway. It’s Andrew’s easy dismissal of the mere possibility _their_ partnership could mean more that erodes at the remnants of Kevin’s heart.

Such is the fortune of the dramatics.

It’s only hours later, when Kevin has finished running drills that no one will ever see, improving skills that no one will ever acknowledge, training for games that he will never win, that Kevin’s frustration begins to ebb. There is nothing like the primal need to progress in every monotonous aspect of a trade that gets the blood flowing. The synapses connecting. The emotions tampering.

But to Kevin’s credit, it’s not a weakness on his part that makes him forget his previous annoyance.

It’s the suicide note.

He finds it partially fallen behind a locker and a forgotten racquet. There’s a name on the back of it:

_Bryan S. Gordon_

Later, Kevin will congratulate himself for managing to not throw up. Or faint. But it’s a close call. Very close. Now, Kevin pales. Sweat breaks out in numbed horror, mixing with the droplets of water still stuck to him from his shower. It’s hard to breathe. _It’s hard to breathe._

He can’t _breathe—_

When Kevin was eight, he was surprised to find how heavy water could be. Sure, it hurt to hold his breath for a long time. But it was another type of pain to swim so far down that the water no longer glided him along the current, but compressed his small bones and threatened to crush every available centimeter of space out of his lungs.

That’s what he feels like now. Compressed. Crushed. But there is no water to drown him; the air itself is suffocating.

Then.

His lungs discover oxygen again. It’s a miracle, really. Like finding a new world, minus colonial violence and genocide, and all. Chest heaving, he drops the note. He picks it up. His hands shake. He drops it again.

Breathe. _In._ Out. _In._ Out.

Head between his knees, he slides down to the locker room floor, joining the forlorn parchment.

_In_. Out.

Minute after minute.

Somehow, he finds enough interior strength to thank the god he doesn’t believe in that no one is around to see his breakdown. Staying late after practice sometimes has its perks. When he’s finally composed enough to read the entirety of the short letter, Kevin’s heart has almost started to function normally again. Almost normally.

To his greatest relief, and grudging humiliation, it’s not a suicide note after all.

It’s a script.

Despite being alone, Kevin has the ingrained reaction to be embarrassed for the anxiety attack. He shouldn’t. But he does. To his defense, the words he reads are a perverted version of Othello’s monologue right before he stabs himself. The theater department premiered Othello two semesters ago. That was before Kevin had joined, but he can still clearly remember Seth’s often complaints about how late rehearsals would run, how much the plays would run into his own exy practice time.

“Why don’t you just quit?” Kevin had asked him once. “If you hate performing so much.”

“I don’t _hate_ performing,” Seth had said. He’d been late to practice again, but their coach didn’t care enough to talk to Gordon herself, so she had sent Kevin to do the reprimanding. “That’s the only part I like, in fact.”

“I thought the only part you liked was that girl you never shut up about,” Kevin muttered.

“Heard that.”

“Wasn’t hiding it,” Kevin sighed. “Look, just fix your schedule and make sure you're not late anymore. You’re one of our best strikers and we need—“

“Right, because the only thing I’m good for is how much people like you can use me,” Seth interrupted. He’d been rifling through his equipment locker, but now he slammed it shut with a fierce bang. “I barely have time to breathe in between all this shit, so are we done?”

Kevin gaped. He probably resembled a fish, but he didn’t know what to say. Seth wasn’t the most docile person, but Kevin wondered if there was something else he should’ve picked up on. “I’m not using you,” was all he could think to say.

“Oh, don’t take it personal, Day.” Seth slung a bag over his shoulder. His nostrils flared, and Kevin was almost concerned he about to be punched. For a moment, he even thought he deserved to be, but he wasn’t sure why. “I’m used to it now. One of these days, I won’t be useful anymore, and you’ll find someone else to replace and exploit and shit on.” Seth laughed. It was a violent bark of noise. “ _C’est la vie_ , isn't that right?”

It wasn’t right. Something had been very, very wrong. And maybe if Kevin had pushed, maybe if Kevin had reached out his hand and grabbed Seth before Seth could stalk away from the locker room, maybe—maybe—maybe—

He wouldn’t be dead.

Guilt is as much of a broken cycle as pain is.

It was only months later that all the _wrong_ moments made sense to Kevin. Like the most ironic puzzle set, the pieces fell together after it was too late.

_Suicide_ , the papers had read.

_Pushed_ , some students had said.

_Gone._ The body had bled.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Now, Kevin sits on the hollow floors of that same locker room. Seth’s death has put him more on edge than he realized. Now looking through the note with a steady heart, there isn’t much logic in interpreting it as a suicide one. He reads Gordon’s messy scrawl over and over, an attempt to solidify in his own mind that what he reads is truly just an old set of notes, and not a fatal manifesto. The words have been twisted, modernized into a series of lines that are chillingly close to home.

_Look, I have a weapon,_ the last paragraph of the note reads. _I’ve gotten through this hell twenty times more terrifying than you with this weapon. But who can control fate? Not me. Don’t be scared, even though you see me with this weapon. This is the end of my journey. This is the end of my life. There’s no reason to be afraid._

_I am not afraid._

II.

When the voice speaks, it's all Kevin can do not to shout.

“Oh.”

Kevin startles and turns. He wonders if he’s fated to die of a heart attack. With the way things are going, he’s happy to place bets on it.

“Oh,” the stranger repeats wisely. “You look awful.”

Resigned, Kevin stands. His face burns and he finds himself angry and embarrassed all at once. He doesn’t know who he’s angry at. His hand clenches around the note and crumples it out of sight.

“Do you need something? The locker room is closed to outsiders,” He manages to say to the other boy. Distantly, Kevin recognizes him. Red hair, scarred cheeks impossible to miss, similar to Kevin’s own. They have a class together. Niall, maybe? Noah? No, that’s not—

“You, actually,” the boy responds, nonplussed to Kevin’s rudeness. _Neil,_ Kevin remembers. That’s his name. _He does look like a Noah though—_ “Nicky sent me to look for you, said you’d probably be in here or the library.” He gestures at Kevin. “Here you are.”

“No shit.” Anger and embarrassment begins to drain in line of Neil’s poker face. He doesn’t look like he’s about to laugh at Kevin’s obviously disheveled state, or offer superficial pity for the classmate he barely knows. The lack of concern is not unlike Andrew’s own impassivity, and Kevin finds himself calming down in the face of it. The familiarness.

Strange.

“Anyway.” Neil shrugs. “Nicky’s waiting for you.” He looks like he wants to say something else but ultimately decides against it.

Kevin nods and turns away, shoving the note into his pocket. He expects the awkward exchange to be over and goes to finish packing up his equipment that he’d been gathering before the note interrupted him.

Then Neil, in fact, speaks up again. “Your hand is shaking,” he says.

“Old injury,” Kevin mutters under his breath. When Neil asks him to repeat himself, Kevin only rolls his eyes in response. “Never mind.”

They leave. Kevin is surprised to find Neil following him, realizing he never asked why Nicky sent Neil of all people to collect him, but not caring enough to ask. “Nicky could’ve just called,” he tells Neil, not unkindly.

“He did.” They turn a corridor, Kevin leading the way to the dorms. Foxborough isn’t a large campus, but the walk is long enough for conversation to become awkward if not made an effort. “Tried a few times, but you didn’t pick up. Nicky figured you were practicing.”

The way Neil’s voice hitches on the last sentence has Kevin casting a glance over his side. He shuffles his bag around and pulls his phone out, immediately seeing the alerts notifying him of Nicky’s seven missed calls. _A few_. “Oh. Yeah. I hadn’t noticed.”

The handsome slacks and fitted sweater that Neil wears draws Kevin’s attention; a light sheen of sweat coats Neil’s forehead like he’d been running, or just walking around and looking for Kevin in his warm clothes for too long.

“Sorry about making you walk all this way,” he tells Neil. _Not that_ I _made you,_ he internally adds. But apologizing is second nature.

Neil waves him off. “It’s fine. I was meaning to check out the court anyway.”

“Oh?” He throws another glance, this time appreciative. Even under Neil’s winter get up, Kevin thinks he can see the tell-tell curvature of muscle. Or maybe he’s just projecting. “Do you play?”

Not that they have an opening, but the university’s exy team has never received the attention Kevin wishes they could. If the Hunters could recruit a star athlete to the exy program, maybe all that could change. Unlike the rest of the American collegiate culture, extra funds and resources at the university are spent on academia and research—if not also the expensive as shit security necessary to keep the highly targeted students safe (though, Kevin would argue the security is more aimed at protecting the admin from the students).

And _if_ the athletic divisions were to miraculously receive extra funding, that went immediately to the rowing team, of all places. Fucking priorities.

Neil starts to nod at Kevin’s question before shaking his head.

“Well, which is it? You play but you don’t?”

“I...played.” Neil shrugs again. “I haven’t in years though.”

“Too bad.” Kevin is partially surprised to find he means it, too. Neil has an interesting energy around him. Kevin had noticed him before in class, briefly, but up close he finds himself drawn to the reserved but powerful expression behind Neil’s eyes.

A song his mother used to sing nags at Kevin's psyche:

_Quiet like the Coastal Plains/_

_Burning it’s self-fueling flame._

_This is the way, this is the way/_

_The way in which he came._

It was almost like—

“I heard you’re gonna be in _Antigone_.” The sudden change in subject is not lost to either of them. “That’s premiering in the spring, yeah?” Kevin nods an affirmative, surprised that Neil knows the information about him. “Athlete and thesbian? That’s interesting.”

“It’s thes _p_ ian. And athletics don’t mean much around here,” Kevin corrects him. “But yes, I am. Exy is an adrenaline rush but theater is...”

“A way to satisfy an unquenchable thirst for attention?”

Kevin whips a glare at him until noticing that Neil is smiling, eyes glinting. The sight would normally seem friendly on anyone else, but on Neil it looks bestial. Cunning. Like he’s sharing an inside joke with himself and the world is the punch line. “I was going to say ‘exhilarating too’,” Kevin says, “but I guess you have a point.”

“Maybe, but I was joking.” Neil sighs. “Kinda new to this whole conversation thing.”

“What, were you homeschooled or something?” Kevin’s the one joking now, but to his horror, Neil’s, “That’s one way to put it,” stops his own grin in its tracks.

“Oh. Sorry?”

“Me too.” They’re quiet the rest of the way. The silence is almost uncomfortable, but neither finds words to fill it. When Kevin realizes they’ve reached not only the dorms, but have stopped outside Kevin and Nicky’s own room, Kevin hesitates.

“Um. I have to grab some stuff before I meet with Nicky. Do you—?”

“It’s fine.” Neil gestures towards the door. “I’ll wait for you here.”

“Actually, I—” Kevin shakes his head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you waiting?”

Neil cocks his head, puzzled. “Nicky did tell you, right?”

“Tell me what?”

Neil flushes. He almost looks embarrassed, but his jaw sets in determination. “Nicky said you could, uh... well—”

_I need a favor._

“Oh god,” Kevin groans. His grip tightens around the unturned doorknob. “I’m sorry. Yeah, Nicky told me earlier. I think he forgot to give me your name. I just wasn’t expecting... Actually, I don’t know what I was expecting. Just not you.”

“Not me,” Neil repeats. His face flushes darker but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh.”

“Not like that, I—” Without meaning to, his hand around the knob begins to shake. First Andrew, then the bone wearing practice, then the note—which Kevin still can’t get off his mind but doesn’t know who to talk with about it, if that’s even necessary—and now a fast crumbling conversation all is hitting Kevin with full force.

He’s exhausted. “To be honest, I was expecting another air head Nicky wanted me to help only so he could get in their pants.”

Neil scoffs. “How does you tutoring someone help Nicky shag them?”

Um _. How does someone use the word shag unironically?_ Kevin wants to ask. He doesn’t.

“That’s Nicky’s superpower. And fatal flaw. Anyway. Let me just.” He gestures to the door again and Neil nods. Slipping inside, he feels a slight twinge of guilt for not inviting Neil in, but quickly gets over it. The floor space is barely large enough to fit two grown adults, and in a perfect world, Kevin would have double the space to break down in quietly.

But he has neither the space nor the time to do so, so resolves to quickly gather the materials he needs for his session with Neil and notes for Nicky. It’s the first week of January, and Kevin still hadn’t finished fully unpacking from returning from winter break. It takes a few minutes longer for him to find his old notebooks that he needs, but its successful in the end.

Before he forgets, he stuffs the note from the locker room into a back pocket of his bag to look at later. Or burn. When he’s fully packed and ready, he checks his face in the wall mirror and sighs.

Eye bags darker than Andrew’s wardrobe; more authentic than Nicky’s Versace purse collection.

A new record.

_Breathe_. In. _Out_. Better.

It’s a comforting lie. As he goes for the door, he catches sight of the digital clock hanging on the wall. It’s still early enough that’s it’s sane to be out studying, late enough that Kevin wants to keel over and sleep.

He opens the door. “Okay, ready?”

The hallway is empty.

III.

“Do you know where Neil is?”

“We really need to work on your greeting skills,” Nicky says when he answers the phone. “Wait, what did you just say?”

“Do you know where—?” He doesn’t get to finish.

“He’s gone?”

“That’s what I implied.”

“But I sent him looking for you!”

“Yes, I’m aware—also, tell me the student’s name next time.”

“What? Yeah, whatever. So why aren’t you with him?”

“I was!” Kevin sighs. If it weren’t for the fact he’d put himself in this position by agreeing to Nicky’s favor, he’d be cursing the man out. “I went to grab some things for a few minutes and when I came back, he was gone.”

“So let me get this straight—”

“A first.”

“—Fuck off—You lost my charge?”

“Yes?” Kevin is walking down the length of the hall. “And since when are you responsible for him?”

Nicky mutters something in a language Kevin can’t translate and groans. “I ask for one simple thing.”

“In my defense, nothing you’ve ever asked for has been simple.”

“Besides the point. Look, uh—” a sound of shuffling papers and bag zipping—"I’ll try calling him. He doesn’t usually check his phone but it can’t hurt. Do you have his number? No, of course you don’t, I’ll send his contact. He does this sometimes, so.”

“He’s done this before?” Kevin laughs but not from humor. He almost considers laying down on the hallway floor, if not for the fact he knows he wouldn’t have the strength to get back up. “So it’s not really my fault, he’s just likes to cut and run now and then?”

Nicky doesn’t offer a response to that. Instead he says, “We’ll take turns calling him; he can’t be far. It’s not like he's been kidnapped or—”

That’s when Kevin hears the scream.

Actually, what Kevin hears first is more like a strangled shout, followed by a sadistic laugh. Nicky’s the one who screams in response.

“Nicky, shut up. You’re not even over here,” Kevin hisses, already making his way towards the commotion. A couple students peer out from their own dorms, curious about the sudden noise. It’s coming from what sounds like two halls over. Kevin could have swore he checked said hall for Neil, but when he turns the corner, that’s exactly who he finds doubled over in pain. A grinning blonde stands above him.

“Nicky, I gotta go.”

“Hold on—” but Kevin’s already hung up. He jogs over to the scene, not sure whether to be baffled, angry, or resigned. Why he is always the one to get in the middle of shit like this, even god probably doesn’t know.

“Andrew,” Kevin says. Apparently, Kevin and the man were destined by some spirit to see each other again that day. The former doesn’t offer a response, save for a raised eyebrow in Kevin’s direction. When Andrew speaks, it’s directed at the crumpled form on the ground.

“What’s wrong with you? I didn’t give you a paper cut, did I?” Andrew laughs again. His eyes are bright. Too bright. Like he’s had a negative reaction to eye drops, but worse.

_Shit_ , Kevin thinks. _We're definitely not hanging out tonight._

That’s when he notices the book hanging from Andrew’s right hand. ‘Book’ is being gracious. It’s more like a brick of wood and lead, the kind that can give you a concussion from impact. Kevin connects this information to the sight of Neil on the floor and cusses aloud.

“Andrew, what have you done?” He bends down and goes to sling his arm under Neil to help him up. The second he hears the whimper and sees the slight flinch from Neil, he stops. A cold wave washes over Kevin. Andrew can be hard to deal with sometimes, but he’s never been _cruel_ —

“It’s fine.” Neil seems to choke out the words. “Just meeting the flatmates, you know?” The joke dies before it leaves his mouth. He makes no move to get up. Andrew is still smiling.

“Andrew, what the fuck is going on?” Kevin wants to shout from the absurdity of it all, but he forces his voice to remain as low and calm as possible. Three frantic idiots won’t be of help to anyone. He’s never known how to deal with Andrew’s manic drug high, and he sure as hell doesn’t know how to deal with an injured stranger who obviously isn’t comfortable with being touched. He doesn’t know, he _doesn’t_ —

“Breathe.” A hand on his shoulder, the one not holding the textbook. “Stop acting like a drama queen.”

Despite Kevin’s seething anger towards Andrew at the moment, he can’t find the strength to disobey. “Can someone please tell me what just happened?” He asks when he’s under control. Neil is watching him silently, elbow propped up to hold himself up on the floor. Kevin still kneels beside him, unmoving.

“No,” Andrew grins, his eyes murder. “I don’t like it when you ask nicely.” He taps the textbook in Neil’s direction, gaze flashing over Neil’s bright curls and damaged skin. “Keep your fox on a leash, Kevin. Don’t interrupt me again.”

And it’s over. The force of a storm, the patience of a bomb. There and gone, havoc wrought. Andrew retreats back into his dorm room, banging the door closed in front of them. The detached smile never leaves his face. Kevin breathes again.

“Well, this a good start to a study date,” Neil mutters. He pushes himself up the rest of the way to lean against the wall, arm clinging to his stomach where Andrew must have racked him. The other students who had been watching the scene withdraw again to their own worlds.

“What?” Kevin moves to sit beside Neil on the wall. He’s slightly dizzy, and Neil’s body heat is a furnace, and for a moment that’s the only thing keeping Kevin sane. “‘Date’?”

Neil tries to smile but it crumples. “Joke.”

“Oh.”

Kevin wants to close his eyes. “I’m sorry about Andrew. He’s not, but I am.”

He feels Neil shrug beside him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” Kevin looks over at the boy beside him. Sitting so close, he notices a bruise blooming under Neil’s jaw that he hadn’t seen before. It looks new. “Andrew’s...”

“Don’t.” Neil shifts, unsuccessfully trying to get comfortable on the hard floor. Kevin’s glad the RA doesn’t usually patrol their halls or they’d be kicked out in no time. “I don’t need an explanation. It’s my fault anyway.”

Kevin scoffs. “What could you possibly have done to make getting sacked in the gut your fault?”

“I was talking too loud,” Neil says as if that’s a justifiable answer to anything. “He was studying, and wanted me to be quiet.”

Kevin stills. It’s not just the response, but the utter seriousness in it that makes Kevin feel like the entire world has gone mad. Maybe it has. “There’s a difference between asking someone to keep it down and punching them to make them.”

“Technically, the book punched me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“No, I’m not.” Neil looks over at Kevin for the first time since they’d sat down together. “I told him to fuck off, so he whacked me again.”

Kevin tries not to, but a slow smile breaks across his face. He starts to laugh, and Neil joins him. It’s pathetic, really. So desperately pathetic. They can’t stop laughing, trying their best to stay silent lest Andrew return with a fist and a copy of Ciccarelli’s _Psychology_.

When they begin to sober up, Kevin says, “You were gone when I left my room. I thought you’d ran away or something.”

“Or something.”

“Yeah.”

“My uncle called.” Neil indicates down the hall. “I didn’t realize it’d take so long, or that it would so deeply inhibit someone’s study time.”

Desperate together, they find themselves laughing yet again. Neil leans into him ever so slightly, or maybe it’s Kevin who leans first. Neither pull away. Chests rising and falling, breathing stuttered. A tear rolls its way down Kevin's cheeks. For once, it’s not from pain. Kevin lets himself enjoy it. He never even hears the lie Neil spoke.

They don’t pull themselves up until a violent knock against the wall reminds them Andrew is only meters away. Kevin first, then Neil. The latter barely winces when he gets to his feet, but his abdomen strains. 

“Do you need ice for that?” Kevin asks, gesturing to Neil’s stomach. Knowing Andrew, Kevin is not envious of the mark that would probably leave. Just that thought alone of Neil hurt from Andrew’s touch sends a flare of anger shooting down Kevin’s spine.

“No, it’ll be fine— _Really_. I swear. It just knocked the wind out of me for a second,” Neil claims. But Kevin clearly remembers the shards in Neil’s eyes, the distrust in Neil’s bones when Kevin had gone to help him up. That was more than an absent wind. That was a void. “I’d just like to get this over with.”

“Same.” Kevin can imagine his own bed, hard like a rock but welcoming as a cloud. He could worry about Andrew and the episode tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. The note is definitely off the agenda for the next twelve hours, that’s for sure. For now, though—

“So. History, huh?” Kevin nods towards the hallway. He picks up his bag and leads Neil to find Nicky and get this study session over with. “What do you know about the French Revolution?”

It’s a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lorde's song: 'Ribs'
> 
> Works mentioned in chapter:  
> Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics  
> Shakespeare's Othello  
> Sophocles' Antigone  
> Saundra Ciccarelli & J. Noland White's Psychology  
> Ref. to Cassie McQuiston's Red White and Royal Blue
> 
> The song in Part 2 is fictional and only exists within this fictional world


	3. Baptism by Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: implications of drug use (recurring theme but will always be mentioned in cw if necessary); murder/s*icide reference, brief implications of electr*shock therapy and self-inflicted bodily m*tilation

I

Kevin misses his first alarm. And his second. By the third round, he considers emailing his 8:00 a.m. professor that he’s sick, but he doesn’t think she’d particularly care.

In a way, he _is_ sick. Sick of all the bullshit.

With a groan, he grabs his phone on the desk next to him and rereads the texts he sent last night after he’d got back from helping Nicky tutor Neil. The messages say ‘read’ but there’s no reply.

Silent Treatment.

The audacity, really. It should be Kevin ignoring Andrew. It should be Kevin not putting up another second with the manic blonde who’s never given more than two shits about his or anyone else’s wellbeing.

And yet.

There’s tar in the water and Kevin fears he has a share of the blame.

He half doesn’t expect to find Andrew seated at their usual table inside the student center, a spacious room dominated by couches and tables to the east and small vendors to the west. Somehow, Kevin had managed to drag himself to class. He’d spent the entire lecture on human behavior mulling over what he would say in the chance he did run into Andrew. He knew any anger would be met with indifference; any desperate pleading combatted with annoyance.

That left only one option: direct speech.

Now, surrounded by the afternoon rush of the center and catching sight of Andrew in the flesh, Kevin is only emboldened. In a normal setting, the blonde would stick out like a sore thumb. But dressed in a black cashmere turtleneck, brown suede pants and combat boots, Andrew is just another average Foxborough upperclassmen. Brass rings and Burberry rims complete the look and the expected energy—

Andrew only wears his god awful lenses when he’s nursing a comedown.

Not that he’s ever stated, but it’s a habit Kevin thinks he’s picked up on. Andrew still refuses to admit he has a ‘problem’, and that is a problem in itself for Kevin.

But choose your battles, isn’t that right?

Kevin is no Leonides nor Menestratus, but if he must sacrifice his dignity for the one he l-o-v-can’t finish the thought, he might as well go all in.

_Dulce et decorum est pro amatore mori._

Finished the thought.

He makes his way east towards Andrew, whose head is in another one of his books. It’s for one of his Literature courses by the looks of it. He’s writing in the margins, face impassive but hand flying quickly across the page in earnest. He’s beautiful, and Kevin wishes for the countless time that that didn’t hurt so goddamn much.

“Hey,” Kevin greets. He opts for the peaceful approach first, extending his own olive branch despite the boiling emotions churning in his gut. He sits down at the oak table across from the blonde. “Tried texting you earlier.”

“If I had anything to say,” Andrew drawls, voice matching the elongated flourish of his pen on the page, “I would have hours ago. I’m busy.”

“Andrew—” Kevin restrains the urge to knock the pen out of Andrew’s grip. _Peace, Kevin. Peace_.“Can we have a serious conversation? For once?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You asked me a question. I gave you an answer.” Andrew pauses in his scribbling but still doesn’t look up. “If your only aim is to receive an answer that satisfies _you_ , then you’re looking in the wrong place.”

The tar bubbles.

“I don’t...” Kevin trails off. He watches the way the ink has bled into Andrew’s hand, staining the flesh a dark purple. It reminds Kevin of the plum smattering under Neil’s jaw, a constellation of ruptured blood vessels.

As planned via Nicky, the two had studied in the main library, Witherspear, the night before.

The building was modeled after the Chiesa di Sant'ignazio, a baroque reflection of it’s Italian counterpart. Undulating walls and stained glass windows command attention; Bocote shelves form a labyrinth of outlets to knowledge—and destruction. Inscribed above the main entrance are the words of Oakes Ames, Foxborough’s co-founder and primary investor:

_Dove c'è Dio c'è Verità; Dove c'è Verità c'è Violenza_

Where there is God there is Truth; Where there is Truth there is Violence.

Neil’s eyes took in the affluent scenery with both appreciation and resentment. One of the many life size paintings that decorate Witherspear could set a person for life. As he absorbed his surroundings, Kevin examined the new yet familiar individual next to him.

“That wasn’t him,” Neil had told Kevin. _Him._ Meaning Andrew. Neil had noticed Kevin staring at the marks on his skin while they studied.

“I know,” Kevin had said. He ran a distracted hand through his hair. All his nerves screamed _Who did it?_ but Neil was looking away, eyes down at his notebook but hardened in an unspoken plea. Kevin decided not to push the person who was basically still a stranger for answers. “Andrew’s never been...He’s not the abusive type.”

_The opposite, in fact; always the opposite._

Neil tilted his head, meeting Kevin’s gaze. Nicky was busy searching for another textbook among the shelves, but Neil still paused a moment as if concerned about being heard. “Okay?”

Kevin flushed. He didn’t know why he felt the need to defend Andrew to Neil. After all, Neil had every right reserved to be angry or wary. “Sorry. Never mind,” Kevin muttered. He started to pick up another notecard to go over with Neil, but Neil placed a hand over the card to stop him. Kevin stared, keenly aware of Neil’s tender closeness to his own blood and bone.

The haunting words of Fitzgerald rattled at his mind’s door. The message of a saint, written by the hands of a sinner.

_Celibacy goes deeper than the flesh._

What celibacy? What flesh, if it is all torn and stripped away?

“Why are you apologizing?” Neil asked. The stretch of discolored skin on jaw, muscles moving and contracting under violet shadow. _Who did it?_ The low light of the table lamp casted a starker contrast between the bruises and the unmarked flesh on his neck.

Could touch heal what words could not? Kevin imagined leaning over and kissing that small juncture, all troubles fading away.

The tar burned.

“Good news, boys,” Nicky said from behind them, a few decibels above the appropriate volume. “The Bourgeoisie is back in business.” He walked around the table and sat the book he’d found on it. “Henry Heller pulls through again.”

“Is the bourgeoisie even a good thing?” Neil asked. He’d pulled away, and it was only after he’d done so that Kevin realized how close they’d been sitting. “I thought they were the ones exploiting everyone. Like, the Daddy Warbucks of the Revolution.”

Nicky bursted into laughter as he sat down. Despite being close to nine in the evening, there was a considerate amount of students milling around and they received a round of glares for the outburst. Kevin found himself laughing too, but quieter in return.

“What? I’m not wrong, am I?” Neil said, but his eyes were twinkling.

“You think Daddy Warbucks is a good example of exploitation?” Nicky asked at the same time Kevin joked, “Daddy Warbucks was worse,” and they erupted into another fit of laughter. A student librarian had to walk over and issue a warning for it. None of them cared.

“Hello, earth to Karen,” Andrew says. He snaps an ink-stained finger in front of Kevin’s face, effectively tripping the latter from his memories. “Du verschwendest meine Zeit.”

Kevin scowls. “I don’t know what that means. And stop calling me that.”

“Then stop wasting my time,” Andrew says in English. “I told you. I’m busy. If you have nothing else to whine about, leave.” He doesn’t say it with any malice, but matter of fact indifference.

_It’s always indifference with you_. Kevin remembers Neil curled up on the ground. _Until it’s not._ The anger from before returns, black and polluted. “You don’t have the right to brush me off like this,” he says. “Not after last night.” _Not ever_. He doesn’t have the courage to add the last part.

“I’m not brushing you off,” Andrew says. He taps the page that he’s on twice with the butt of his pen. “I’m just focusing on something more important.”

“That’s the definition of brushing someone off.”

“Kevin.” For the first time, Andrew meets his eyes. The former’s are dull, almost bored, if not for the irritated tick of his fingers on the pen. Kevin remembers how bright they had been last night, how red and crazed. Drugs and delirium, the bane of his existence. “What do you want?”

“I already told you,” Kevin says. “I want to have a serious conversation. With you. No distractions, no dismissals.”

Andrew gestures vaguely. “Distractions don't seem to be my problem.” Andrew means one thing; Kevin thinks of another. The unbidden guilt crescendoes: forte. 

But Kevin doesn’t admit defeat. Not yet.

"Andrew--"

_"_ Pause _."_

"Don't be serious."

Andrew sighs. “Fine. I’m listening.”

“No _distractions_ ,” Kevin repeats. Andrew pauses, as if considering plunging the pen he still holds into someone’s hand. Maybe his own. Instead, he graciously drops it. “Thank you.”

And then Kevin hesitates, realizing he doesn’t have his next words prepared. In all honesty, he didn’t think he’d get this far.

“Uh, let’s start with the obvious,” Kevin decides after a quick moment of consideration. He thinks of Andrew's eyes, that manic smile, so bright it _burns_. “I thought you’d quit.”

Andrew shrugs. “You think a lot of things.”

_“Andrew_.” Stay calm, stay calm. “You know how dangerous this is.” He drops his voice lower. “After last time—”

“ _Last_ time I checked, you weren’t my therapist,” Andrew says. He’s forced his words flat, impassive. “Don’t pretend to be.”

Last time. Months ago, even before Seth’s death. Kevin had found Andrew in Andrew and Aaron’s dorm, unresponsive and eyes black. Not just his pupils. Sclera, iris—everything—was black and vast. Kevin thought Andrew was dead. Kevin hoped he himself was dead instead, just so that what he was seeing could be blamed for some hell-fueled punishment, and not something real.

Andrew wasn’t dead. But he’d come close.

_It wasn’t cocaine,_ Andrew tried telling Kevin once he’d fully awoken in the hospital. The IV dripped into his bloodstream, possibly the one last tether keeping him alive.

_I don’t believe you. Your eyes_ , Kevin had whispered. He could barely breathe. He’d already fainted once, after he’d called the campus emergency responders. Talking was another chore. _They were black._

_It wasn’t_ , Andrew had insisted, face pale and iris’s still stained. _Drugs don’t do this to a person_.

Kevin cried, and by the time the tears stopped flowing, he didn’t know if it started because of the lies he thought Andrew had told him, or the lies that almost killed him.

Though if Kevin had cleared his own eyes, he might have realized Andrew had been, in fact, telling the truth.  
  
But after all, the blind lead the blind.

Kevin says, “It doesn’t take a therapist to see you’re addicted—”

“Enough.” Andrew pushes his glasses up his nose, a frustrated tick. “If I wanted an intervention, I’d say something. As if I haven’t made that abundantly clear before.”

“Andrew, for once, this isn’t just about you.” Kevin squares his shoulders, resisting the desire to back down from the fire behind Andrew’s gaze. It gives him some sick satisfaction he was able to raise that much of a reaction out of the normally unperturbed man. “Your habits hurt people.”

“Oh dear.”

“You _hurt_ someone last night.” Kevin ignores the remark. “For no reason. Do you even remember that, or did the powder make you forget that too?”

As if a switch is flipped, Andrew completely stills. Not just a normal stillness, but a pure wave of motionless rolls over him. For a moment, he doesn’t seem to breathe. He’s a statue of grit and gold, bathed in the warm sunlight shining in from the large windows that surround the student center. The chatter around them continues but Kevin is fixed only on the man in front of him. “Andrew—”

“I remember,” he says hoarsely. The frozen facade breaks and he breathes deeply. “And I would do it again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I won’t repeat myself.” Andrew juts out his jaw. Stubborn bastard.

“This isn’t you,” Kevin says. “You don’t…”

“What do you want me to say, darling?” Andrew sneers. His voice twists like a knife, mocking. “‘How inconsiderate of me?’ ‘Apologies for my dreadful actions?’ ‘Oops, my hand slipped?’”

One of the greatest mysteries in Kevin’s small universe is the paradox before him. How do lips so divine utter such hellish words?

“I want you to mean it,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I just want you to mean it.”

“And I want,” Andrew says slowly, “all the noise and all the chaos to be quiet for one goddamn minute. You _want_ too much. Keep wishing, Day, and soon you’ll find there’s no one left to hear you.”

“Thats not true,” Kevin begins. _I’m here, I can hear you_. “You’re wrong—“

_A share of the blame._

“No, Kevin, you’re wrong.” Andrew almost looks sorrowful, if not for the angry smirk twisting his features. A creature of contradiction. “And it’s so pathetic because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re right.”

“You can’t—“ _keep_ _doing this to yourself_ , Kevin wants to say. But that’s wrong too. Andrew _can_ do this to himself, and that’s exactly what he’s proven. It feels like he’s reaching for threads, but he’s never been more desperate to hold on. “You can’t do this to other people,” Kevin says instead. “Andrew, you could have seriously hurt him. Neil. You didn’t see his face, he—you’re lucky he doesn’t bruise easily.”

“What did you do?” Andrews voice dips, almost amused. “Kiss his boo-boo’s away?”

Tar.

Tar.

Tar.

“Oh, wipe that expression off your face,” Andrew says. “You look like I killed your mom or something. You can kiss whoever you want.”

“I _can_?”

“As long you keep your pets away from me. I don’t quite like foxes—”

“My _pet_?” Kevin sputters. “Not wanting you to hit other people in the gut doesn’t make them my _pet_.” But his attention is still drawn to Andrew's first comment.

“Maybe next time he’ll learn his lesson.” 

“Hitting someone isn’t a way to teach!” The change in volume startles a group of freshman sitting nearby. One accidentally tips over their coffee on the table. Alol, the cleaning lady, glares at the mess and then Kevin. Kevin shrinks back in his seat, flushing dark.

Andrew rubs his jaw. If anything, he’s tired, and Kevin is silently happy that Andrew’s not completely unfazed by whatever is going on. “No, but it gets my point across well enough, doesn’t it.”

“Your _point_? Wanting someone to keep it down—”

“My point,” Andrew interrupts, “is simple. Touch what is mine, receive the consequences.” He levels a pointed look at Kevin that sends not an unpleasant feeling down to the base of Kevin’s chest. It makes Kevin burn.

“What do you mean?” he asks. He thinks he might know, but he doesn’t expect to hear it.

Andrew leans forward ever so slightly in his seat. His own sugared coffee is untouched, and he lays a heavy hand over the lid. “I won’t tolerate people touching _what is mine.”_

Kevin’s throat feels too dry. He remembers lips and whispers and sweet nothings never said. He remembers a dusty book and a violet-stained boy. He remembers Andrew telling him moments before he could kiss whoever he wants yet laying claim to him like property.

Shakily, Kevin says, “I’m not yours.”

Oh, how it all burns.

“You’re not much else.”

Kevin wills his voice not to crack. “You’ve never even wanted me.”

For the first time that day, the ghost of a smile—a real, proper smile— tugs at the corners of Andrew’s mouth. It’s not unkind. “That’s the first true thing you’ve said today.”

At these words, Kevin is struck with a revelation. Understanding clouds his vision and it takes all the self-control Kevin has stored up to keep from combusting. “Andrew, you don’t—Don’t say that.”

Andrew shrugs. His words are lethal, unrepentant. “You said it first.”

It’s a sad sort of irony, Kevin knows. Andrew hates lies, but sometimes that’s all he is. One stubborn, blazing deception bred with another. Enough to set Kevin’s world alight.

Baptism by fire.

“You know,” Kevin breathes in slowly. Tears prick at his eyes, unbidden, but he doesn’t find the energy to care. He understands this may be the furthest he’s ever gotten through to Andrew, and it feels no more successful than scraping at a brick wall. The decision manifests as quickly as his previous anger, and he doesn’t waste breath on second guessing.

He grabs his discarded bag and stands up. “If you keep breaking my heart like this,” he continues as a tear breaks free, “one day you’ll have nothing left to call your own. Use and abuse all you like—” Kevin is proud of himself for finding that his voice only slightly wavers—"but unlike your own self-absorbency, I have my limits. And you’re hitting every one of them.”

And with that, he leaves.

Or tries to, until the hand grabs his sleeve.

‘Grab’ is being generous. It’s more of a brush, the shadow of a touch. It feels like a vise. Andrew would never latch on outright without permission, an internal moral code he firmly obeys even in the midst of such turmoil. The only exceptions to this seem to be his manic moments when overcome by the will of the drugs.

Andrew doesn’t say, “Wait’ or ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘You’re right, Kevin, I crossed a line I should never have touched and you deserve to be angry at me about it’. If he did, Kevin would cry bullshit and demand to know where the real Andrew went.

Instead he says, “You want to know a secret, Day?”

_No_. Kevin waits with baited breath in front of where Andrew still sits, faced sideways away from him _._ “What?”

Andrew licks his lips and sighs. He redraws his hand and taps an index finger against the still opened book in front of him, as if it holds the answers to all of life’s mysteries.

“I saw God,” he says so quiet Kevin thinks he’s misheard him. “Last night. He came to me, Kevin, out of the dust and ashes of my sin.”

_What shit are you quoting now?_ Kevin thinks.

Out loud: “The coke, you mean?” Bitter.

“If that’s what you want to think.” Andrew turns his head a fraction of an inch to meet Kevin’s eyes. They’re so hollow and it reflects back into Kevin’s own heart. _Nothing left to call your own._

“Cut the shit, Andrew,” Kevin says. “You don’t even believe in God.”

“I don’t believe in regret either.” He places his hand in front of Kevin’s own and, when Kevin makes it clear he’s not pulling away, envelops Kevin’s wrist. He squeezes gently, a painful contrast to the blank expression. “But yet, here we are.”

Kevin breathes in sharply. He takes back his hand as Andrew pulls away. It’s the closest thing he’ll get out of Andrew.

It’s not enough. It’s never been enough.

But for now it has to be.

II.

The world is a wonderfully terrifying place.

Just one oak tree can contain a half million more leaves than the amount of people the average person will interact with in life.

On the West Lawn stands a particular oak that Foxborough students hold in careful regard. Attitude for the oak ranges from appreciative awe to near physical worship. The one common attribute shared by all who come across this tree is undoubted fear.

They call this tree Noose.

It’s a ridiculously tall tree, larger and wider than most oaks should be able to grow. It's branches, dipped like hooks, leave no room for the imagination as to what this tree’s purpose would best serve. Perfect for wrapping a length of rope around, Noose was named after a series of campus legends. Folklore at best, tragedy at worst.

There’s a gardener who tends to the lawns on Fox. His name is Oremor and some say he’s older than the tree itself. If you stay around long enough to learn Noose’s name from the man, you may also hear the song he sings while he trims:

_Found five, left one_

September, 1873. Two years after the school’s founding. Five students met at Noose before dawn. Only one walked away.

_Saw four, met none_

Kathleen Joanna Ferdinand. Caretaker of the lawns who stumbled upon Noose an hour after sunrise. A staple of wrong time, wrong place. She spent the rest of her fifty three years of life strapped to metal and wires, unsuccessful attempts to clean her mind of the angels she claimed tormented her since.

_Tripped thrice, can’t run_

Jonah Holstrom, heir of Holstrom and Howard Standard Oil. Prominent socialite and dagger enthusiast. Suffered a hazing during his first year at Fox and accidentally stumbled upon the hanging students. Died four days and nine hours later. Cause of death: cervical fracture. Achilles heels cut clean through. Official statement: suicide. No one believed the lie, but no one fought it, either.

_Blinked twice, eyes gone_

The greatest mystery surrounding the deaths of the four students was not why they killed themselves, but why they picked the manner in which they died. It is one thing to hang oneself. It is quite another to gouge out one’s eyes and rip out one’s tongue moments before.

_One man, undone_

Jean Mort Claire, the lone survivor. Walked away from his companions that fateful morning. Never spoke a word of their motives, of their decisions. Never explained why he didn’t follow them into the next life. Graduated a year later, but never spoke a word again. Mute.  
  
Oremor may tell you Mort Claire gave Noose its name. Some students say it was the other way around, that Oremor was the proposer. You’re welcome to believe one way or the other. In the end, it doesn’t much matter. What does matter is what the song doesn’t say.

Here’s how the rest of the story goes:

The five students made a pact—a cruel one, as temptatious adults do. See, the students murdered one of their own and the guilt ate them up. It wasn’t the killing that gnawed on their conscience, but the knowledge that they didn’t end the man’s life sooner. If they had, maybe more lives could have been saved. But that’s all dead and gone, like their own souls.

But Jean. Jean, Jean, Jean. He couldn’t go through with the deed. He was guilty just as they all were, but nowhere near as self-destructive. So when his peers raised their spoons, he mimicked their own cries of bone-jerking pain. When his peers dropped their ropes, he dropped his alongside theirs.

But he didn’t fall with them.

Decades later, when Jean finally crossed into that undiscovered country, the pact reached completion. The wounds that the Fallen Five—as the group had been coined—had marked upon the earth could finally begin to heal.

Except the wounds didn’t heal.

The funny thing about stories is that the beginning is usually not as important as people think. The reason _why_ the story began is another matter. The man the Fallen Five had killed has no bearing on this particular tale. The motive, even, has no matter in the long run.

What does matter is what happened after the killing. After their deaths.

Their victim was stabbed forty nine times.

The Fallen Five, minus Mort Claire, hung for forty nine minutes.

And since 1873, three people have died on campus. Exactly forty-nine years apart.

To be clear, many more than three people have died. Within the decade alone, there’s been enough student deaths to garner national—if not international—attention. But then again, Fox is known for her student body’s critical lifespan. You’re not heirs of multi-million dollar pseudo-corporations without gaining a few hits at one point or another. Only the endless wealth of the parents’ and sponsors’ of Fox’s students have managed to keep the criminal justice agencies (mostly) out of their business.

Seth Gordon was the last to die in the forty-nine year chain.

Because the last thing Oremor will tell you is a secret:

If a person dies on campus and their body is found within a five mile radius of the tree, legend says that the person died an untimely death.

The matter of ‘untimely’ is much debated.

Some say untimely means that the cause of death is murder.

Others say that the cause is an accident.

And even fewer, like Andrew Minyard—who has no time for superstitious singing gardeners and who just wants all the noise and all the chaos to be quiet for one goddamn minute—believe the cause is just that. A cause. A manner of death. With no heavier significance behind the means. Trees can’t influence crime.

Until--

Seth Gordon's body was found four point nine miles away from Noose.

The irony is lost to absolutely no one.

And for once, as the webs of the unstable existence he spun for himself begin to unravel, Andrew Minyard realizes that he was very, very wrong.

III.

As Kevin storms away from him in the student center, Andrew taps the page of the book he is on. _Leaves of Grass._ Except the words are not Whitman. The old poet's lines, annotated and crossed and scratched out in more fervent efforts as the pages continue, stare back at Andrew unimpressed.

> ~~_I effuse my flesh in **eddies and drift** it in lacy jags. _ ~~
> 
> ~~_ I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, _ ~~
> 
> ~~_**If you want me** again look for me under your bootsoles. _ ~~

Written in the margins of the stanza is Andrew's message. He pauses a moment to hate himself for being so harsh with Kevin, but what's done is done. It was a necessary sacrifice to make sure Kevin left as soon as possible. He couldn't risk the chance Kevin got suspicious.

_ Did you have to make him feel less than shit, though?  
_

It's a constant argument with himself. Fuck his conscience. He'll make it up to Kevin later.

He rips out a portion of the page with the note and folds it: once, twice, thrice. He only has to stay in his seat another six minutes before he sees what he's waiting for.

He leaves the note, now folded into the size of a dime, on the lid of his still not drunken coffee cup.

And when his target opens the message, it only says one thing:

> _They're back._

* * *

[While we wait for the next installment, listen to the official TITWTWE soundtrack here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7kiSOSwnRvJ6rTyLcvmE1Y?si=v3u61mr9QNGM386tfTVtqw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be updated every Sunday!
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my amazing friend May (@ mayleaemerald on Tumblr) for her help with the German translations. I appreciate you so much <33
> 
> Other citations:
> 
> "Dulce et Decorum est pro amatore mori" means "How sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s love(r)." This is a satirical take on the Roman poet, Horace, when he said, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori", which means, "How sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country."
> 
> Dove c'è Dio c'è Verità; Dove c'è Verità c'è Violenza is not a quote from anywhere in particular (at least that I know of). 
> 
> Oakes Ames was a real person, but he did not actually found any University, much less a place named Foxborough. In fact, Ames was involved in the Credit Mobilier scandal in the late 1800's.
> 
> F. Scott Fitzgerald stated, "Celibacy goes deeper than the flesh," in This Side of Paradise.
> 
> Andrew's quote at the end of Part 1 is (as far as I know) not from anything specific.
> 
> The song in Part 2 is not real and simply contained in Foxborough's universe.
> 
> Other works mentioned: Henry Heller's The Bourgeoisie Revolution in France  
> Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, specifically "Song of Myself"


	4. Fate Will Use a Running Noose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: drug use implications; the word 'su*cide' is used once

I.

Lights. Cameras. Action.

Well, _actually_.

The lights are broken.

There are no cameras.

And Kevin is having a very hard time trying to act.

Still.

“What’s the hold up, dear?” Abby Winfield, lead director and motivational support extraordinaire, calls from the center of the house. She’s walking down and back the aisles, listening to the acoustics—or lack thereof, thanks to the current stalling.

“Sorry, nothing,” Kevin responds, holding back a sigh. The other students, lounging around the stage and wings in varied levels of patience, wait to present their pieces.

Warm ups, as necessary as they are, are tiresome as hell for most of them. He doesn’t mind the copious vocal exercises they all run, or the near-ridiculous-kind-of-entertaining games they play at the beginning of each day. It’s the endless monologues that eat away at Kevin. Once upon a time, it was his favorite part of warm-ups: having the chance to pick his own piece and deliver the words, the thoughts, the _life_ of the text itself alone on stage. In many ways, such an exercise is exactly what Kevin is made for.

_An unquenchable thirst for attention_ sounds in Kevin’s mind and its all Kevin can do not to grit his teeth in frustration.

“Any day now, Day,” one of the freshmen, Jack, taunts from Kevin’s right. He’s leaning against a prop of a bar counter. Next to him, Jeremy Knox rolls his eyes. “Har har.” He mimes a slow clap. “How original, asshole.”

“Shut up, golden boy,” Jack mutters. Jeremy smiles, endearingly placate. Kevin ignores them and turns his attention downstage. He doesn’t have to look again to know who he’s really wanting to see is absent. Andrew has a notorious habit of sneaking in on classes, watching Kevin from the back row, listening in on lectures. They never acknowledge this routine to each other, but Andrew was just as aware of Kevin’s own eager expectedness to see each other during these times, no matter how many meters apart they were.

But today is different. It’s a Friday, and even though Andrew doesn’t have class at this time (he’d cleared up his schedule for exactly that reason—not that he’d ever admit such out loud), Kevin knows Andrew isn’t going to show up. It’d only been a couple days since the student center, and even though Kevin was constantly aware of Andrew’s presence in the philosophy class they shared, or eyes watching him in the halls, neither had sucked up their own pride to break the ice first.

God, he misses the man.

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, he clears his throat _. Any day now. Any day._

And he begins:

“ _Yet each man kills the thing he loves.”_

Winfield lifts a hand and he bites back a sigh. “Louder,” she commands. “And more diction. E _nun_ ciate, please. From the top.”

A breath.

_“Yet each man kills the thing he loves,_

_By each let this be heard._

_Some do it with a bitter look._

_Some with a flattering word.”_

He hates the word irony. He hates the meaning of it, the pretentiousness of it, the _pathetic_ -ness of the situation it implies. But good God, can he taste it on his tongue—bitter and as bold as blood.

_“The coward does it with a kiss._

_The brave man with a sword.”_

Kevin feels more than sees the eyes on him as he speaks. The dreaded monologue, how fast he aches to finish it. Winfield continues up and down the aisle, lifting a hand every now and then in a _rise up_ gesture to indicate more volume. He complies, seething internally the entire time. Not at her, not at his audience, his own friends, but at himself. At his own shadow. At that which follows him constantly; that angry, hurting, abysmal shade that never ceases to remind him of who he is.

_You want too much._ But.

He continues through the warm-up, and as he does so, the memories that he is trying so hard to repress—at least for the painstaking moment—bubble forth. Andrew rejecting him, time and time again. Andrew reaching for him, holding him, _saving_ him, from Kevin’s own perilous demons. Andrew saying, _No_ , but hands saying, _Stay_.

_You can kiss who you want_ but _you are mine, you are mine, no one touches what is_ mine _._

All your words kill that which you love, Kevin says with his eyes.

My beautiful creature of contradiction.

_We are stripped bare on the altar of theater._ The words are his nature, his truth.

He has never felt so hollow.

He stumbles in his speech and Winfield cocks a head at the interruption. Another line, another stanza, over. Thirty seconds to freedom.

_“Some love too little, some too long,_

_Some sell and others buy;_

_Some do the deed with many tears,_

_And some without a sigh.”_

Andrew’s hands in his hair, on his waist, on his chest. A beast averse to touch but so damn tactile. Kevin’s tears, his own waterfall of truth. _We are made of memories._ Another hand, another memory tugging at his chest. It doesn’t belong to Andrew.

We are stripped bare, we are stripped bare, we are stripped bare.

_“For each man kills the thing he loves,”_

(am I dead? am I dead? have you not killed me yet?)

_“Yet each man does not die.”_

A beat.

A breath.

A bow.

(He doesn’t actually bow.)

Winfield makes a note on a clipboard she acquired from some indeterminable location and thanks him. As he walks off stage center he sees Jack watching him from his perch, expression indecipherable.

“Wilde?” Jack says as Kevin passes. “How ironic.”

The taste of blood lingers as he waits through the rest of the warm ups.

II.

The boy in the balcony listens, gaze heavy. He can see the anger, the pain. He can hear it in every bitter word.

_Yet each man kills the thing he loves._

I’m in the wrong business, then, he thinks.

He wonders why the man is so angry. He wonders how no one else can see what’s so incredibly obvious.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice says and the boy grins.

“Come to hit me again?” Neil asks. He doesn’t look away from Kevin speaking down below.

“Classes are closed to visitors,” the voice continues. “I don’t believe they would appreciate you sneaking around.”

Neil lifts a shoulder. “Funny. Do you ever mind your own advice?”

Andrew Minyard glares at the back of Neil’s head. “Oh, little fox,” he drawls. “You have no idea how much I mind.”

Neil knew this was coming. It had only been a few days, but he knew the hunter had caught his scent. _Khorosho_. Good.

That was the plan, after all.

Finally, Neil tears his eyes away and turns to face the blonde. He wrinkles his nose at the black three piece suit Andrew’s wearing, impeccable pretentiousness. “You’re sober,” he says unnecessarily.

“Hmm. Correct. I always am. Want a prize for that?” Andrew crosses his arms and leans against the drapes separating the exit. His voice is pitched higher, more nasal, when he says, “Ten points to Slytherin.”

Neil runs his tongue over his teeth. “Slytherin? How dare you make assumptions. I could be a brazen Gryffindor.”

Below them, the voices of the actors continue to filter throughout the auditorium. Andrew raises a brow but observes Neil for a quiet pause.

“Well,” he mutters. “You sure as hell aren’t Ravenclaw.”

“Neither are you,” Neil shoots back.

“Oh? And why is that, little fox?”

Neil considers for a moment before stepping forward, close enough that he could stretch an arm and touch Andrew if he tried. “Because a Ravenclaw would be wise enough to not be a junkie,” he says lowly.

A muscle in Andrew’s jaw tightens, but that’s the only indication he’s reacted to the words. “Wisdom has nothing to do with circumstance,” Andrew says. “Figure that riddle out, fox.”

Neil cocks his head to the side. “I already have. And my _name_ is Neil,” he says. “You can call me that instead of a dumb animal.”

Andrew hesitates before chuckling darkly. “Oh, you really are slow, aren’t you? Smart but slow.” Neil waits, unsure where Andrew is going with this. “A fox isn’t stupid. They’re one of the most cunning predators, in fact.”

Andrew’s gaze lingers over the burns on Neil’s cheek and the latter has to repress a shiver from running down his back. Like Kevin, Andrew doesn’t regard the wounds with pity nor disgust. More like: knowing; understanding.

_I_ see _you._

“I call you what you are,” Andrew so much as whispers. It hits Neil like an earthquake. “Not by the lie you tell me.”

Neil wills his breath to remain even. So far, his plan is staying on track. But how fast to take it, how fast to run?

“What lie?”

“A shame,” Andrew tsks. “I don’t quite like liars.”

“I haven’t lied to you,” Neil says. “I’ve told you nothing.”

Andrew glances past Neil and at the stage below. He doesn’t know what Andrew is looking at, but he can take a guess. They’ve both come for the same thing.

“Nothing,” Andrew repeats. His eyes find Neil’s again. “Why him?”

“Him?”

Andrew rolls an eye. “And now you are playing dumb. Don’t become an actor, dear. You won’t make it far. _Him_. Say his name for me. I want to hear it off your lips.”

A not uneasy flutter runs through Neil’s chest. He feels as if he’s dancing with Andrew, a dangerous waltz of words and masked accusations. It’s not unlike dancing the bolero in one of Uncle’s many ballrooms.

“ _Kevin_ ,” Neil says and it’s like a prayer breathed from a sinner’s lips. “Is that what you want to hear? Kevin Day?” He tries to ignore the beating of his heart, so obviously alive and guilty.

Has the hunter caught this other scent so soon? Another trail to satisfy his bloodlust?

Andrew nods slowly. “Do you want him?”

“Excuse me?” With the back lights out and all the commotion downstairs, no one can hear nor see them, but Neil feels utterly exposed.

_If you see me do I see you?_

_If I know you do you know me?_

“It’s a simple question, really. You can’t be that daft.”

“He’s—” Neil shakes his head but he doesn’t know what at. “He’s not mine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

This part is not according to plan.

“It is,” Neil insists. He swallows. “He’s not _mine_ to want.”

At that Andrew laughs. It sounds off, like a broken record. “Well, _Neil_.” A spit of the name. “You’re more interesting than you let on. But you’re avoiding the answer that we both know and I want to know why.”

“Why do you care?” Neil demands. He expected other questions, maybe some threats. Not about Kevin. Not so soon. “If you think I’m some kind of threat—”

“Oh, I do,” Andrew cuts in, “think so. But what I wonder is, to whom? Yourself?”

“What do you want from me? Need a book to hit me with again?” Neil crosses his arms, mind racing. He’s taking in as many visual cues he can on Andrew, piecing together the puzzles of Andrew’s tells while he stalls with words.

“No,” Andrew says plainly. “I want nothing.”

“We’re talking in circles,” Neil groans. “You obviously do, you’ve said as much—“

_“Bist du eine Bedrohung_?” Andrew asks and it takes more self-control than it normally should for Neil to conceal a reaction to the German words.

“Excuse me?” he says in English.

“I think you heard me,” Andrew continues in German. “And I think you understand.”

Neil stares blankly, too stubborn to give up the act.

“Shame,” Andrew yawns, English returning. “All the world’s a stage or some bullshit like that, isn't that right?”

“Whatever you say.” Neil turns his head, eyes finding Kevin on stage below, now running through a breathing exercise with another student. He doesn’t look up even as Andrew steps closer, shoulder almost pushing his aside as they both look down at the same target.

“Do you appreciate the things you possess?” Neil asks. He’s very aware he’s toying with a beast, but he’s never been one to bite back his thoughts.

Still gazing forward, eyes pinned on the unsuspecting elephant in the room, Andrew mutters, “I possess nothing.”

His head twitches, as if restraining his own words, before he adds, “People are not _things_ and they sure as hell aren’t to be possessed.”

Do you hear your own lies or do you just not care? Neil wonders.

“Is he not yours then?” Neil questions aloud. He wonders amused when the beast will let go and snap his head off. He’d welcome it.

Andrew’s fingers clench around the rail of the balcony. “Getting some ideas, is that it?”

“I always have ideas,” Neil says seriously. He notes the evasion of the question. “It’s just a matter of getting people to listen to them.”

“I can assure you that I am not listening.”

“Especially to your own words.” For possibly the first time since Uncle had found Neil rooting around his weapons safe a year back, Neil struggles to suppress his unease under Andrew’s violent glare. He relishes the feeling.

“What?” he demands, feigning confidence he wishes he had. “Has no one ever called your hypocrisy out?”

“Hypocrisy?” Andrew spits out as if the existence of the word offends him.

“Yes, _hypocrisy_.” Neil rolls his eyes to cover his own itching grin. Kevin is a rush in himself, but only after a few minutes Andrew is almost achingly predictable. It’s lovely. “You keep acting like you don’t care, but every little thing you do suggests otherwise. Pity Kevin doesn’t understand just how much you care for him.”

A flare rises behind Andrew’s eyes, and Neil knows the other man is enjoying this fickle game. In a trenchant, masochistic way, but enjoyment nevertheless.

Oh yes, Neil finds this just lovely.

“You don’t know him,” Andrew grits out. _And you don’t know me,_ is left unsaid.

Neil wonders if this much of a reaction is usual for the blonde, though he can take an educated guess in the other direction. Neil doesn’t think much of the abuse to his gut the first time he encountered Andrew. After all, Andrew’s reaction was part of Neil’s plan (not the hitting, per say, but any similar reaction confirmed Neil in his own suspicions); a plan which the blonde is still oblivious to. Besides, Neil has experienced much, much worse treatment for far, far less. It was kind of endearing to see how flustered Kevin was over Neil, though. If Neil is lucky, maybe Andrew would hit him again so Kevin would have another reason to fawn over Neil.

“I would like to,” Neil says honestly. “But more than that, I would like to know you as well.”

Andrew takes a few breaths, eyes flashing back down at the stage. The clear distrust could rival broken glass. “Why?”

Why? A good question. The old print of an iron on Neil’s chest asks the same thing. The faded scars of a passing bullet repeat the question. Why? Why would he want something so problematic? Uncle would sneer at Neil’s situation.

But Uncle’s dead, so it doesn’t truly matter, does it?

“Because to know someone,” Neil says, “is to be known in return.”

Andrew’s mouth thins. “And what is there to know about you?”

“Nothing,” Neil assures. Such a lie, such a thrill. “There’s nothing to want to know of me because I myself have always been nothing.”

“Why are you here then?” Andrew growls. “Fox isn’t meant for Nothings.”

Neil looks out over the balcony. The fire in Andrew could be addictive if Neil isn’t careful. Like a moth to a flame, Neil is tempted to burn. “When I first came here,” Neil says, “it was against my will. My uncle thought it best for me to continue my education in safety. To better the family company.”

He pauses, holding back a feral grin. Oh, the rush of Deception.

“The students here, I watch them.”

“Oh, do you now?” If sarcasm could cut skin, Neil would’ve bled out.

“I do,” he says, unfazed. “And funny thing, I was surprised to find I was being watched in return.” Another pause, but Andrew doesn’t speak. “This whole time I was looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next bullet. It took me a while to realize that if I were to be harmed, that’d mean you were already dead.”

Andrew snorts. His fingers tighten ever so slightly around the rails again, knuckles blanching. “Maybe I was wrong,” he says. “If you think I”m watching your six, you really are daft.”

“Not watching my back,” Neil returns, “but watching everyone else’s because of me. You’re easier to read than you think.”

“Is that right?” The burn is intense and Neil isn’t even looking. Maybe he’s a damned man after all. “And what have you read about me?”

Ding ding ding.

“Enough.” _Everything_. The fact sheet is just as clear in Neil’s mind as if he were physically still reading from it. “Enough to know you are probably the most dangerous person in this school. And you won’t allow anyone you deem a threat to walk for long.”

Neil hears Andrew laugh but it’s not kind. “That’s not news, though, little fox. I’ve been called the Monster since the first day I set foot on this campus.”

“You’re not a monster,” Neil dismisses easily. “There’s a difference between such and the Law.”

The air next to Neil stills, alerting him that Andrew has completely frozen.

_Yes, junkie. I know who you are. I didn’t lie about_ that _. But…do you know me?_

“Interesting,” Andrew mutters. “Because I’ve found that many times they are very much the same.”  
  
Neil watches Kevin disappear behind a curtain on stage, all anger and controlled chaos. Glorious. He comes out a moment later with what looks like a length of coiled rope, some prop.

Neil says, “He doesn’t know about you, does he?”

“No.”This admission doesn’t come easy. But after a tense, silent moment, the one syllable seems near torn from Andrew’s lips.

_He wasn’t expecting_ me _to know either_ , Neil realizes.

Surprise, bastard.

“What have you told him?” Neil wonders. “Surely you haven’t been lying this whole time?” The thought, Neil is surprised to find, genuinely saddens him. He hadn’t expected to have become so attached to Kevin, nor so concerned over the state of Kevin’s heart.

“He knows that he doesn’t know everything,” Andrew says resolutely.

Neil scoffs, all brash and adrenaline. “Our very own Socrates, hmm?”

“He knows what he needs to,” Andrew spits. Then, just a decibel softer he adds, “He’s experienced enough. To last a lifetime. He doesn’t need to be dragged into anything else.”

Surprisingly, Neil finds himself nodding. It sounds fair. Neil had only known Kevin mere weeks but if anything happened to him, Neil felt as if he’d kill himself or someone else. Or both.

Which, is part of the problem. Neil has a mission, and Kevin not getting hurt wouldn’t be quite possible if it’s going to succeed. He wonders if Andrew realizes the extent of who Neil is; and if so, why hasn’t Andrew killed him yet?

Not that he’s complaining for being alive, of course.

“I want to protect him just as much as you,” Neil tells Andrew with finality. “I know you don’t trust me, but—"

“And why should I?” Andrew demands. “A man who wears his scars like a challenge and refuses to tell anything but lies? I’ll take my chances with the plebs. They’re useless, but at least they’re harmless.”

“Andrew, if I were truly a threat,” Neil says, voice hushed, “you wouldn’t have let me get this far.” _Oh, this dance we play is interesting, isn’t it? Always mindful of each other’s toes but don’t know which direction to travel._

Andrew breathes in through his nose and exhales before responding. “Who says you’ve gotten anywhere?”

“I’m still standing here, aren’t I? And though you put up this act like my existence offends you—” Neil clicks his tongue, boldness taking over once again, “you’re no better than I am.”

“And how is that.” Andrew’s become monotonous again, his only tell that what he’s hearing affects him.

“Good actors recognize good actors,” Neil whispers. “And we are both merely players.”

Andrew continues to watch Kevin, face blank, heart fuming, as Neil departs from the balcony.

III.

Andrew has a call to make.

It’s only been a couple hours since he ran into Neil, but he knows the sooner he gets this over with, the better. He eyes the phone in his hand, heart pounding. As usual, the student center bustles with activity, loud enough to cover anything he says. It’s safer than sneaking around and risking getting trapped. The cleaning lady for the center’s section glares at Andrew’s sprawled form on his chair, twill clad legs stretched out obnoxiously on the table. He grins unpleasantly at her.

But inside, his mind is warring. Andrew has a call to make, and he can’t bring himself to press the number.

Because something is so incredibly _wrong_ , and his gut tells him the problem isn’t where it should be.

Andrew doesn’t consider himself suicidal. Not anymore. But he can’t bring himself to do his job, the one thing potentially keeping him alive. There’s just something about the silver-tongued fox that has Andrew going against every second of training he’s undergone.

_You adore the mystery._ But for how long? When will this mystery become the known?

He doesn’t trust Neil. But not for the reasons one would expect.

A text comes in. He reads the words, then reads them again. He sighs.

**_From D: Talk to NVX._ **

“I know that,” he mutters to himself. Ever since he got in touch with Danseuse, she’s been on his ass to call their handler. She’d do it herself, but she doesn’t have all the information. And Andrew could barely sort through what _he_ knew, much less tell her all of it yet.

A familiar form passes in the corner of Andrew’s eye and he turns. It’s Kevin, walking up to the center’s coffee stand with Nicky and Allison. They all have French next, and as stubborn as Andrew is to leave Kevin alone for the time being, just the sight of him makes Andrew’s chest hurt.

_Use and abuse all you like…_

Andrew shoves the phone in his pocket, call disregarded. He’ll pay the price for that later, but right now he has another debt to make up. At the same moment he stands from his chair, Kevin turns and sees Andrew. He freezes mid-sentence in whatever he’s saying to Allison while Nicky orders, eyes falling.

Not in disappointment, Andrew notes, but in preparation. Preparing himself to be rejected again. And at this realization Andrew knows he can’t keep his act up anymore, no matter what Neil says of the world.

“Kevin,” he says when he reaches the man. Kevin’s gaze had followed Andrew the whole ten meters of Andrew’s walk over to him, unsure what to expect. “Can you spare a minute?”

Spare a minute. How fucking formal. But Kevin nods, yet knowing damn well he can’t risk being late for class. He doesn’t care.

“Hi, uh, yes,” he tells Andrew. Allison and he share a look before he steps away with Andrew. He waits for Andrew to speak, anything, everything that Andrew could say. To break his heart, to build him back together. Toss a coin, the possibilities flip-flop every second.

“I…” Andrew takes a breath. Hubris, his _hamaratia_ ; one of many, at least. He’s just as prey to it’s fatal hooks. But he doesn’t want to be.

“Are you free-tonight? For dinner?”

Kevin’s face darkens, apparently not expecting such a question. Usually Andrew would use less words and in the form of a statement, an implied askance. Not so polite, never so hesitant.

They’ve had fights before. Not in the normal sense of the word, but fights nonetheless. Kevin wanting more than Andrew could give, Andrew pushing away what he was given. This occurrence, the tip-toeing around each other until one of them cracked, is not new.

But going out for dinner? This is different.

Kevin wonders if this is Andrew’s way of apologizing, another fractured bridge to connect between them. Then he realizes it’s a stupid thing to wonder; it can’t be any more obvious what Andrew is doing.

It’s only been a few days, but Kevin’s will isn’t strong enough to drag this distance any further. He doesn’t want to do so, anyway.

“I’d really like that,” Kevin finally says. He smiles softly—relieved, so fucking _relieved_ —and gestures towards the coffee stand where Nicky and Allison are waiting. Nicky waves at Andrew and Andrew ignores him. “Do you want coffee? I’ll get you some—“

“No,” Andrew cuts in gently. “You have class. But, six. Tonight. I’’ll pick you up.”

That’s more like it. The direct, almost-a-command, but Kevin knows it’s just a doorway through which he can enter or not. He’s entering for damn sure, despite the tribulations of their labyrinth.

“Okay,” Kevin says. He offers a small, white-flag-in-surrender smile to Andrew and walks back to his friends. Andrew sighs. _One day at a time._

But the storm isn’t over.

It’s brewing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU TO MY LOVELY BIRL (@justwhatialwayswanted on ao3--go read her fics, they're glorious) FOR HER HELP BETA-ING THIS CHAPTER <333 
> 
> hmm what is Neil up to? What's Andrew got going on? Suspicious, suspicious.
> 
> As always, thank you to my lovely May (@mayleaemerald on Tumblr) for helping with the German translations. 
> 
> So many thanks to everyone who has shared their theater stories, tips, and insights to help shed some light on this beautiful world. Thank you to Luci (@luci-cunt), Birl (@deus-ex-knoxina/@justwhatialwayswanted), @lemonadepluto, @somethingmissingthings, @major-general-blue, and so many others, I apologize if I forgot to mention you!
> 
> Chapter Citations:  
> Title of chapter and poem Kevin quotes are excerpts from Oscar Wilde's "The Ballad of Reading Gaol"  
> Reference to Shakespeare's 'As You Like It'


	5. This is What Makes Us Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: an*iety attack; drug implications; self harm warning for part III

I.

Time passes, and with it, so does the anger.

That’s the frustration with feelings. They’re so _temporary_. So fleeting.

A midnight passion can turn into boundless fear as quickly as it first came. A summer love can became an autumn regret. Even a heartbroken boy can inevitably heal with the passage of time.

And so he does.

That's the other frustration with feelings. As much as you want to hate them, despise them, resent them, at the end of the day, that’s all you are. A broken, beautiful mess of emotion.

That’s what makes us human, after all.

“I don’t agree with that,” Andrew says lightly. He’s sprawled on Kevin’s bed, throwing a discarded exy ball back and forth against the wall. Each individual _thump-thump-thump_ of the ball is enough to drive Kevin mad. He’’s surprised the dorm neighbors haven’t said something yet. “Animals can feel emotion too, and they’re not human.”

Kevin looks up from his laptop notes. His presentation on human emotion is still weeks away, but Andrew had agreed to help and be his audience as he practiced. As it turns out, Andrew’s idea of ‘help’ includes voicing his disagreements at every possible turn. Kevin tries not to find it endearing.

“Humans are technically animals, though,” Kevin says. “All animals, to a degree, can experience emotion. Humans, however, are unique in the way we specifically experience emotion.”

“Oh?” Andrew juts out his chin. The smell of cigarette smoke is harsh in the small room, but Kevin’s just thankful its nicotine and not worse. “And how do we _specifically_ experience emotion?”

“That’s what I’m trying to get to,” Kevin laughs. “If you’d let me finish.”

“You want to pass, I suggest listening to my input.” Andrew shrugs. “Not that I have any experience on the subject, of course.”

Kevin laughs again. He loves these days, the ones where they can joke and communicate like normal people. The days where Andrew’s shines but doesn’t burn. The days when the brick wall feels more like clay.

Some days, like this one, Andrew doesn’t want to do anything more than lay around or talk and Kevin welcomes these times just as warmly as the afternoons spent trading lazy kisses or hard, frantic touches.

It’s been two weeks since the Neil Incident, as Kevin had labeled the first night tutoring Neil in his mind. He and Andrew had surprisingly gotten back into their normal rhythm quicker than Kevin expected. As promised, they went out for dinner, which began with hesitant but familiar banter and ended in a very mutually satisfactory excursion. When Andrew’s words can’t iterate what he feels, his lips and hands say more. When Kevin’s wants and wishes are too much, he lets Andrew set the bar.

Some moments he still feels as if he’s treading on thin ice, but he’s learned to glide regardless.

“Oh, shut up, Psych major,” he says but grins when Andrew blesses him with his own amused eye roll. 

“I don’t take orders from you,” Andrew says. He bounces the ball one last time before shooting it towards Kevin. Muscle memory is the only thing that saves him from receiving a full force of rubber to the nose, and Kevin spins the ball around in his hand triumphantly.

“Right.” Kevin closes his laptop. He should have known he’d never get more than halfway through reviewing with Andrew in the room. In fact, part of him had hoped for this exact thing. “You’d rather give me orders, huh?”

He means it as a tease, something to make Andrew smirk at. So he’s surprised when Andrew’s face falls flat and he leans back into the headboard of the bed, away from Kevin. “I won’t ever make you do something you don’t want,” Andrew promises solemnly.

Kevin starts, taken aback by how serious Andrew has suddenly become.

“I know that, Andrew.” Because he does, he _does_ know. And while part of Kevin’s brain wants to take a trip down memory lane to the Neil Incident, another part assures Kevin that that was just a fluke, a one time mistake. Even if he pisses Kevin off or inadvertently breaks his heart from time to time, that doesn’t erase the fact that he _trusts_ Andrew.

Like all truths, it’s complicated.

When Andrew doesn’t speak, suddenly finding the bed sheets incredibly interesting, 

Kevin stands from his desk and walks over to the bed. Kevin has a feeling this has something to do with *the* conversation weeks ago. He motions at the small space next to Andrew. “Can I?”

Andrew breathes a yes and pulls Kevin down to his lap, foregoing the empty space entirely. Kevin isn’t displeased. He wants to kiss the heavy expression off of Andrew’s face. He wants Andrew to kiss the tension out of him. He thought he was joking earlier, but in all honesty, he wouldn’t mind Andrew being a little bossy.

He trusts Andrew, after all.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Andrew says and pushes a lock of Kevin’s hair out of the way. It wasn’t in the way to begin, but its as good an excuse as any to touch him.

“Like what?” Kevin asks absently. He doesn’t listen to what Andrew says. He’s only concentrating on the perfect curve of Andrew’s mouth, on the pale scar running from his cupid’s bow to upper lip. There’s a fire kindling in Kevin’s gut and he’s beginning to understand that’s it alright to burn for the right cause.

 _This is what makes us human_ he thinks as Andrew answers his only wish, hand wrapped protectively around the back of Kevin’s neck and drawing him in close. The other hand rests around the curve of Kevin’s joined wrists and its all Kevin can do not to light too quickly.

But it’s all in vain because Andrew’s lips are a furnace and Kevin is mere clay and he’s never wanted anything more than to be consumed by the heat.

It was a pleasure to burn.

“You’re shaking.” Andrew pulls back. He’s done something strange with his face and it takes Kevin a moment to realize it’s an expression he’s never seen before. Concern? It’s smooths over into the normal mask the second Kevin notices it. “Tell me.”

Kevin clenches his hands in his lap and sighs. He didn’t realize he was shaking until Andrew spoke. “It’s nothing. Can we—?”

“No,” Andrew says gently. He moves the hand behind Kevin’s neck to cup his cheek, thumb skimming over Kevin’s scars. Kevin can’t resist the urge to lean into the touch. “I won’t ask again.”

“You didn’t ask in the first place,” Kevin shoots back. Immediately, he curses himself for doing so. “Sorry, forget I said that.” He wills his hands to still.

“It’s just that, sometimes...” he can’t finish the sentence with Andrew staring so intently at him. He’d rather just kiss and forget about unnecessary words.

“You’re always begging to have a serious conversation,” Andrew reminds as if he can read Kevin’s thoughts. “Don’t say I didn’t try.”

“I don’t beg,” Kevin whines and he actually _whines_ and it’s so frustrating because Andrew’s right. “You overwhelm me sometimes.”

Oh.

Andrew’s cheeks redden slightly but it’s Kevin who feels humiliated. Lord, he needs to take a speech class before his unruly mouth is the death of him. “Andrew, that’s not what I meant.”

Andrew looks ready to throw Kevin off his lap so Kevin scrambles to fix the situation. “That’s not what I meant,” he says again and because he’s an idiot he keeps talking, unable to restrain his tongue from digging a deeper trench. “Andrew, I didn’t want to talk because there’s things I want to tell you sometimes and I’m afraid you won’t want to hear them.”

Tragedy in the trenches.

“Of course I don’t,” Andrew says. The words are a reflex such that neither believe it anymore. He pulls his hands back completely and the absence of touch makes Kevin want to collapse. “I don’t want—”

“Anything, you don’t want anything, I got that,” Kevin groans. He moves off of Andrew’s lap before Andrew has a chance to push him off. How he continues to mess things up, he’ll never know. Everything was going so well, and Kevin’s nerves just had to speak their mind.

He remembers the student center and how he doesn’t want a repeat of that argument. And yet, he can’t restrain the demon in his chest that has him say, “Yet you put up with me and you get pissed when someone so much as talks to me. Make up your mind, Andrew. You won’t have me but you won’t have me with anyone else—”

“Is there someone else you had in mind?”

Oh.

According to Hobbes, human behavior is more broken than not, isn’t it?

“Andrew—“

But.

“It’s not like that—”

It’s more than that.

“Tell me, Kevin.” Sincere interest, covered with crumbling indifference. _We all wear fractured masks._ “What is it like?”

It’s—

It’s more than words. It’s like plum stained flesh, painted within the dying light of a library. It’s like cherry blood, warm and sweet and lethal. It’s like the tears of the saints. It's like a martyr’s smile. It’s like the heat of palm against palm; heart against heart. It’s like every lie and every sin and every truth we’re too scared to utter because the result is always the same.

It’s like the end of the world.

“What is it like, Kevin?” Andrew asks again. The question cuts like a blade through the ice and the end becomes clear. But this is worse than the student center because everything is moving around Kevin but it’s Kevin who’s stopped and for a moment he thinks he’s frozen until he realizes that’s the opposite of what he is because his whole body is shaking and it _hurts_ oh god _it hurts_ no one told him how much the end would _hurt—_

And then it doesn’t.

****

II.

_Breathe._

_In._

_Out._

A constant melody.

_Breathe._

The words are in his head but soft and thick. It’s like his neurons are moving through molasses and can’t connect quickly enough. Seconds pass. Minutes. Years. It doesn’t matter. Time is an arbitrary fractal.

Then the molasses melts and the stream is thin and strong and fast as the currents of the Mississippi and Kevin can hear the words in the air, not only in his mind. It’s dark until he opens his eyes and he’s not sure what happened. But there’s a greater fear, fear for what he’s beginning to remember.

Life is a mortifying affair.

“I’m—”

“If you finish that sentence I’ll leave,” Andrew warns and Kevin clams up. The mere fact Andrew hasn’t left already is incredible, though Kevin should be used to this by now. Andrew has long grown accustomed to Kevin’s condition.

 _Vasovagal syncope_.

“I’m serious.”

“Don’t leave.” Kevin cringes at the desperation in his voice. _Maybe it’s not so incredulous he doesn’t want me,_ he thinks. _This is good enough reason to walk away._

Kevin more feels than hears the following sigh from Andrew, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s laying down. His head is in Andrew’s lap and Andrew’s fingers are running carefully through Kevin’s hair. He doesn’t remember getting from Point A: Standing to Point B: Here, but it’s better than the floor. The calming motion of Andrew’s touch is the greatest surprise and Kevin wants to sink into it. But he’s drowning and knows he needs to surface soon.

“Talk to me, Day,” Andrew says. “Talk and breathe.”

Didn’t he just tell himself he trusts Andrew? It shouldn’t be this hard to open his mind’s door, his heart’s cage.

_I trust him; I trust him; I need to trust him._

The first sin was of trust. Eve trusted the Snake; Adam trusted Eve; God banished his creation for such a fall from grace.

_But we were not made for such a lie that is grace, were we?_

It’s difficult, and the wetness on Kevin’s cheeks turns out to be tears he wasn’t aware had fallen. Andrew wipes them away methodically. It’s more a flood of words than a coherent stream but Andrew accepts it all. Even the truth.

“There are things that I want to tell you,” Kevin starts like before. Every nerve ending is demanding that he keep his mouth shut, but he knows he might never get this chance again to speak his mind. “Everything. All the stupid and insignificant and important things you don’t care about hearing but I want to tell them to you anyway. I want to tell you that I love when you come to my games, even though I know you can’t stand exy. I want to tell you that I love when you hold me like this, even though I know it’s hard for you to touch. I want to tell you that I love when you shout at the sky as if the world is against you but it’s _you_ , Andrew, it’s you against the world and you’re so damn resilient.

“It _hurts_ , Andrew. It hurts to keep everything in all the time but I’m scared that if I let anything out you’ll push away. I don’t want to push you away.”

His voice cracks at the end and Andrew looks like he’s about to speak so Kevin rushes to continue. “I know you don’t ‘want’ anything but I do. I _want_ so much. I want to make you happy, I want to know you, I want to be known _by_ you. I want to hear all your thoughts and whispers and ideas because you’re so smart and your opinions matter even if you don’t think so.”

He’s running out of breath again and he takes a few moments to compose himself. The tears are running freely now and Kevin wonders if it’s really true that weakness is leaving his body, or if it’s the other way around. He’s never felt so weak, so vulnerable in his life. “Andrew, I want to hold your hand outside when you’ll let me and I want you to tell me ‘no’ and ‘yes’ and everything in between. I want to be your’s even if you don’t want to be mine.

“And if you don’t want me at all, then just tell me. Because I’m tired of being treated like you own me when you claim to not want me. I’ll respect that, Andrew, if you decide to push me away. It’ll fucking hurt but I’ll respect that, I swear—”

It’s not words that stop Kevin. It’s the feel of Andrew’s hand sliding against Kevin’s own scarred palm that has Kevin breaking off with a gasp. Their fingers interlock as Andrew wipes Kevin’s cheek with his other hand.

“Are you done?” Andrew asks. “Because I am.”

Kevin shuts his eyes and wonders how a person can drown miles away from any body of water. His lungs have never felt so devoid of air. But he made a promise, and he intends to keep it. “Okay. Like I said, I respect that. Thanks for telling—”

“I’m done listening to your pity party,” Andrew interrupts. “I’m done listening to you second guess yourself. I’m done listening to you say something so stupid again and again.”

“Andrew?” Kevin starts but he’s cut off again.

“No, you said your piece.” Andrew shifts and draws Kevin up, turning the latter to face him. His face softens, but Kevin doesn’t know how to read him. “You’re hurting.”

“I—” Kevin swallows. He barely hears himself say, “Yes. But—”

“No,” Andrew cuts off again. He tilts Kevin’s chin up to look at him. “There’s no but to that. There’s—”

“Stop,” Kevin pleads. “I don’t know what you’re going to say but stop. Look, I misspoke earlier, yeah? I said you overwhelm me. You do.” He squeezes Andrew’s hand ever so gently. “That isn’t a bad thing. I _want_ to be overwhelmed by you.”

Andrew swallows, expression unreadable. “Why?”

“Because it’s you, Andrew,” he says. “I want—“

Somehow, some way, that was the wrong thing to say.

Andrew stands abruptly, Kevin having no choice but to roll to the side, sprawled loosely on the bed. “You don’t know what you want,” Andrew says, not unkindly. He looks from Kevin then to the door, as if waging a battle in his mind.

Then, “I need some air.”

Kevin gapes, face darkening. After all that, after he _finally_ managed to speak his mind, Andrew’s just pushing away again.

“Air?” he repeats, lips numb. A thought occurs to him, and it’s the dawning horror that speaks for him. “Is that what you’re calling it now? The powder?”

Andrew stills. His back faces Kevin, still close enough for Kevin to reach with an outstretched hand. He doesn’t, though.

“You’re not worth the drugs,” Andrew says after a tense moment. Kevin doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent, even after Andrew has grabbed his jacket and stalked away with a soft click of the closing door.

The storm rages.

For not the first time, Kevin is left wondering just what the fuck happened between them. 

III.

The January wind burns his face; it’s a kindling cold that offers no mercy.

_Because it’s you, Andrew._

Because it’s you.

You.

“Fuck,” Andrew breathes. He leans against the side of the dorm’s building, brick and mortar digging through his coat. He fumbles a hand into his pocket, fingers searching for three things at once.

Burner: Check.

Lighter: Check.

Box of cancer—

Double check.

Despite the building’s facade inhibiting most of the force, another cruel gust of wind blows. Over the hill, trees and bushes shake fragilely in the wind. As usual, the largest imposer, Noose, remains audaciously still. _Bastardous roots._

Andrew’d forgotten his gloves in favor of escaping from the dorm; though, his bare fingers make it easier to quickly flip open the rusty zippo and light the first cigarette.

_Air? Is that what you’re calling it now?_

_The powder?_

“Fuck you,” Andrew groans to no one. “Fuck me.”

A smoke; a smoke. He needs air but his lungs fill with smoke.

Next, he turns on the burner and types in the number he’s long memorized. He should have done this weeks ago, but he didn’t. Too lost in his own head, the worries nagged at him for too long. Now everything was going to unravel if he didn’t fix this.

_Fix what? You and Kevin? This isn’t new._

“Fuck off,” he says again.

He knows Kevin won’t follow him out here. Still, Andrew is being reckless by making such a call in the open. He can’t find enough energy to care.

Four rings, two point two seconds apart. His cheeks burn in the cold as he tears a hole into anything his sight lands on.

_Come on, jackass. Come on, come on._

The call connects.

“Joseph,” the voice says in Andrew’s ear. “Today isn’t check in.”

“No shit,” Andrew grumbles into the phone. Calm, his mind says. Calm down. “We have a problem.”

“Oh?” If Andrew could throttle his handler, he’d skip pleasantries and go straight to the fun part. “Did you finally fuck up?”

Andrew takes a long drag of his Parliament before responding just to piss off Nevix. “I don’t fuck up. I clean the shit you leave behind.”

Nevix chuckles on the other end. _Hurensohn_. “I’m at lunch, Joseph. Get to your point.”

Joseph. Andrew has shot people for less. Fucking OCRA and their codes.

The Organization for Criminal Response and Activities is a means to an end for Andrew Minyard. He first agreed to be their mole within Foxborough at the beginning of his freshmen year; in exchange for tipping off OCRA (which is just a hipster offshoot of the CIA in Andrew’s opinion) of any threats/leads concerning the criminal activity of Fox’s students and their families, Andrew’s own blood receives lifelong protection—whether from the U.S. authorities, or her enemies, it doesn’t matter. OCRA, while technically government subsidized, likes to play by it’s own rules when handling business. Hence, hipster.

The pay isn’t too bad either. No matter what happens to Andrew, Nicky and Aaron are guaranteed to live as hedonistic and as selfish as their hearts desire.

About ten yards away from where Andrew stands walk a group of students heading for the dorm entrance. Not close enough to hear, but close enough to warrant caution. He waits for them to disappear through the dorm’s front doors until finally saying, “There’s a fox in the Borough, Nev. I need backup.”

“Backup?” Nevix repeats. “You know regulations, J. Have you even talked with your partner before contacting me?“

Partner: Renee Walker. Codename: Danseuse. Former Black Swan Assassin working for OCRA along the same lines as Andrew. Instead of protecting a family she no longer has, however, she seeks personal security so that the life she left never catches back up to her.

“Of course I know fucking regulations,” Andrew grits out. “I also know when there’s a goddamn bloodbath about—“

“Bloodbath?” Nevix sighs tiredly on the other end. It sounds like they’re in some restaurant, and Andrew can bet his left leg that his handler isn’t taking an ounce of Andrew’s words seriously. “Why in hell would you suspect a _bloodbath_?”

“Because _I’m_ about to start one if I don’t get some fucking backup.”Though, Andrew is having a hard time with the fact he’s the biggest hypocrite for not calling sooner.

He rubs a hand over his face. This problem is quickly unraveling in front of him and his own boss isn’t listening.

Worse, Andrew doesn’t want to listen to himself talk either, though this call is overdue. He wants—he wants—

(Nothing)

—to never have to see that expression on Kevin’s face again.

—to never have to _be_ the one to put that expression on Kevin’s face.

—to never have to lie about his job to the last person he wants to lie to.

 _It’s not lying,_ he tells himself for the thousandth time. _It’s protection._

Protecting who? The void asks. You?

 _Kevin_.

Always Kevin.

 _Nothing left to call your own_ rings in Andrew’s mind and fuck it all to hell—

“…you understand, Joseph?” Nevix is saying. “Unless there is evidence of _physical_ instigation, you are not to contact me outside of Check In. Discuss the situation with your partner.”

 _I did. She said to call_ you, _dipshit._

“Listen. To me. Carefully.” Andrew clenches the hand not holding the phone around his cigarette, the pain burning into his palm allowing him to focus.

“You hired me for one purpose: watch and report,” he says. The flesh on his palm _screams_ from the cigarette’s contact. He relishes it. “I watch. I report. Other than that, I don’t waste my time with you fuckers. I’ve had to give up _way_ too much—“

He cuts off, breath rattling. Kevin’s broken face in his mind, tears flowing ashamed before Andrew. Kevin watching Andrew push him away, walking out the dorm. As if Kevin were the guilty one. As if Andrew weren’t the absolute monster.

If I could just tell him _why_ —

No.

Better for him to one day hate you than ever come to harm because of you.

“—already for your sake,” he continues. "So when I tell you there is a fucking _problem_ , you’re going to do your job and _listen to me.”_

Nevix is silent on the other end. Possibly, they’re speechless in the presence of Andrew’s rare shows of emotion. Andrew’s never met his handler; he doesn’t know anything of the person he reports to other than a codename to call them by. Even Nevix’s voice is disguised behind some system, words dipping and rising behind automated pitches.

But he doesn’t need any more information to know he detests Nevix. If they ever meet in person, R-I-P to his handler, but it’s on sight.

“Alright,” Nevix finally says, tone resigned but serious. “Tell me the situation. I’m assuming there haven’t been any more altercations?”

 _More_ altercations. As if the last time Andrew almost died for the sake of the OCRA was a goddamn _altercation_.

 _It wasn’t drugs,_ Andrew had told Kevin. He needed, more than anything he’s ever before, for Kevin to believe him. To understand that his words were true.

 _I don’t believe you,_ Kevin had choked out. _Your eyes._

Andrew wanted to yell at him. To kick and scream until Kevin believed him.

 _Poison._ Andrew couldn’t say it though. He couldn’t kick nor scream.

Someone had poisoned Andrew.

He let Kevin believe otherwise.

Because of his cursed job, the physical manifestation of his promise to protect those he cared about, Andrew couldn’t tell Kevin what almost killed him. _Who_ almost killed him.

_I’ve given up too much already._

_I can’t lose him too._

Nothing left—Nothing left…

Andrew drops the crumpled cigarette to the ground, flame fully distinguished by the skin of his palm. The flesh burns worse than hell, but he hadn’t even let out a gasp.

“If hitting a target counts as an altercation,” Andrew says lowly, "then maybe.”

Nevix curses on the other end. “Haven’t we talked about this before? You cannot—“ They suddenly cut off in the lecture that was no doubt about to occur. “What target? We haven’t ordered any specifications recently.”

“Yes, you have,” Andrew says, impatient. He studies the burn mark sizzling on his hand; it’s the most interesting part of the conversation. “ _Watch for any foxes_. I spotted one, Nev. Red and bright as the ones in the wild.”

Foxes. Fox in the Borough. Foxborough.

Andrew would like to take OCRA’s idea of a witty code and shove it where the sun don’t shine.

Nevix is silent again, processing the information. “Are you completely sure, Joseph? If this is a false alarm…”

“You’ll cut my head off and feed it to your sewer rats. Yes, I know,” Andrew grunts. “And I’m more than sure. I didn’t study the damn Files until I wanted to gouge my eyes out only to not recognize a Wesninski when I see one—“

“ _Joseph_ ,” Nevix hisses. “Code!”

“Fox!” Andrew whisper shots. “A fox, goddamn it. Happy?”

Still no one around, but damn it he can’t stand this fucking organization. They think they’re some real James Bond shit with their acronyms and passwords and fancy shmancy nicknames. Well, fuck them.

“Which one?” Nevix demands after a moment. They start to list the code names for all the living Wesninski members OCRA’s been trying to track down. “Razor? Lavender? Judas? Patroclus—?”

“Shut up and let me talk,” Andrew interrupts. He remembers the days before, hearing the harsh Russian spoken in the halls, auburn curls falling with the body it belonged to when Andrew intervened. The boy in the balcony, a web of lies and intrigue spinning with his words.

“I think—“ Andrew groans. He has a deadly suspicion but has no desire to voice it aloud. Not yet. “I don’t know which one. But I know he’s related to the Web. He’s young; a student. I heard him talking in the hallways one night; he spoke of Him. _Him_ , Nev. _Russkiy_ and all.”

“This is all—“ Nevix cuts off and the muffled sound of someone else talking filters through the phone. Andrew can’t make out the words but Nevix seems to give an affirmative and speaks quickly into the device.

“J, I have to go. But—listen to me—get in touch with Danseuse. Keep aware. We know there is a possible litter of foxes at play, but we don’t know who. After the recent deaths…” Nevix sighs; too many deaths to list this time. “Best be safe than sorry. But you know I cannot send backup until physical instigation occurs.”

“You mean until someone else dies,” Andrew scoffs. “That’s a horrible system of business."  
  
“An opinion which you’ve expressed more than necessary,” Nevix drawls. “Danseuse, J. Contact her. Check In when come the _appropriate_ time.”

“Wait—“ _I already contacted her._

The call disconnects.

Andrew curses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading! No citations for this chapter. OCRA is a fictional off-shoot of the CIA. Wanna play a game? Guess why Andrew's handler is called what they are :)


	6. Emotional Motion Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: none I can think of; as always, please let me know if any should be added.

I.

“What’s his story?” Matt Boyd asks as the team changes out. Kevin is pulling a light sleeveless tank over his head as his friend speculates. “He looks all dark and mysterious. Has a scar and everything.” Matt wiggles his eyebrows as if conveying some second message that Kevin doesn’t receive.

“Who are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Matt says easily. “It was this dude—“

Kevin tutts. “How specific”.

“With a scar!” Matt says again.

For an overgrown man-child and son of an underground international boxing ring, he’s easily excited over the smallest things. Well, ‘boxing’ is being generous. The Boyd’s run closer to a modern gladiator show than any boxing match one could ever find on cable. Scars have and never will be anything special to the Boyd market (they can’t when dismemberment and disembowelment are daily attractions) and yet. Matt manages to find the interest in the mundane.

He drops his voice conspiratorially. “He was standing outside the court earlier. I’m pretty sure he was watching you.”

Kevin makes a face and begins packing up his practice gear. “Okay.”

Matt groans and takes a seat on the bench next to Kevin. “I ask about your not-so-secret admirer and that’s your response? ‘Okay’?”

“I don’t have an—admirer,” Kevin stutters. “It was probably just someone checking out the court. Wannabe player, or whatever.”

Matt snorts. “”Whatever’ is right. No one in the place cares enough about exy just to check out the court except us.” He crosses his arms. “I know you know who I’m talking about. I saw you with him one time. And I _know_ he was checking you out.”

Kevin levels a suspicious glare at the backliner. “Are you talking about Andrew?”

“Wow,” Matt deadpans. “So funny. Hilarious. I think I know what your broody boyfriend looks like. Mystery boy outside the court was not Andrew.”

Kevin laughs but there’s a shade of unease creeping in. “Not my boyfriend, for the seven hundredth time.”

It’s been two days since the Dorm Fiasco (Kevin thinks he should start a journal with the titles he comes up with). Surprisingly, Andrew had come back to the dorm that day after…whatever the fuck happened between them. He’d assured Kevin that Andrew was just busy with work and didn’t mean to leave Kevin so suddenly. It was quite possibly the biggest load of bullshit Kevin heard from the man, but when Andrew offered to watch the Amazons v. Eagles exy match with him, Kevin couldn’t resist agreeing and curling up in Andrew’s almost apologetic arms.

Kevin stands and stretches, thinking over Matt’s words. _But if not Andrew_ …“What do you mean you saw me with him?”

“Oh, um.” Matt pauses. “I think I saw… uh, actually. Never mind! I don’t think I did, now that you mention it.”

“You mentioned it,” Kevin reminds him. Matt avidly attempts to avoid his gaze. “Matt. Where did you see us? Who did you see?”

Matt sighs in defeat. But when he looks up, he’s trying to hide a grin. “In Witherspear. A couple weeks ago. You two had seemed…cosy.” He wiggles his eyebrows again.

“What—?”

Before he can press for more information, another teammate calls Matt’s name. “Don’t stress, your secret admirer secret is safe with me,” he laughs, walking away. Kevin racks his brain for who Matt could be talking about but already has a strong suspicion. Though Kevin is in the library almost every other night, whether studying or occasionallyhelping tutor various students, there’s only one other person—

 _You two had seemed cosy_. The memory of violet on flesh, Monet’s handiwork. The Bourgeoisie. Soft laughter, brighter than bells.

He shouldn’t. Kevin _really_ shouldn’t be considering it. He’d spent the past weeks trying to forget that night, that student, that desire.

 _Alas, we are creatures of habit_.

Kevin grabs his bag and hurries out of the locker room. He offers a quick round of goodbye’s to his chatting teammates, ignoring their half-hidden shock that for once, he is the first to leave practice. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Matt pause in his conversation with Jack to smirk at him knowingly. Kevin ignores him too.

But when he gets outside the locker room, eyes scanning the court, he sees no sign of the boy he helped Nicky tutor almost a week earlier.

“Damn,” he mutters. The momentary hope deflates. Then he feels guilty for having hoped at all.

“Hi.”

One would think the rapture has arrived with how violently Kevin flinches. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, whipping around at the voice. “You have got to stop doing that.”

But lo and behold, the person Kevin seeks stands before him. “I’m…Sorry?” Neil falters. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, uh.” Kevin lets out a breath. “Of course not. It’s not your fault. I was actually, uh. I was actually looking for you.” He humbly believes he deserves a medal for managing to spit out a full sentence. Bonus points for being mostly coherent.

Neil doesn’t seem fazed by Kevin’s lack of communication skills. He cocks his head as if he heard something surprising. “Oh, really? Did you need something?”

Pausing a moment to allow his heart to steady, Kevin takes in the sight of Neil fully. He looks well rested, if not for a slight slump to his shoulders. In the light of day, the burn mark on his cheek appears severe. But the bruises under his jaw have faded and he’s smiling softly as he waits for Kevin to speak.

“No, I don’t need anything,” Kevin finally says. He shifts his bag from one shoulder to the other and gestures towards the doors to the gym. “I was just leaving, thought I’d—I don’t know, say hi.”

He truly has a way with words sometimes.

“Well, hi,” Neil jokes, sarcastic. He motions his head and without another word he and Kevin begin making their way out together.

“Did _you_ need something?” Kevin asks in return. “My teammate said you were watching the practice. Did you want to talk to our coach or…something?”

Kevin opens the door for them as they leave through the back. “Or something,” Neil says lightly, mimicking their first conversation. “I was hoping to catch you, actually.”

Kevin blushes, and then curses himself for doing so. The sudden chill of the outside air serves as convenient cover for the darkening of his cheeks. He quickly regrets running out of the locker room with nothing but a tank. “Oh? Well, here I am.”

“No shit,” Neil laughs and Kevin, after a moment, does too. “I wanted to ask if—“ Neil hesitates and Kevin looks over—“maybe you’d be open to tutoring again?”

Neil holds his breath, possibly bracing for a rejection. But Kevin’s already nodding. “Yeah, definitely,” he says. The dark sludge is beginning to pool in his gut, but he tries to push it away. He can’t feel guilty for tutoring when it fulfills his service hours. “I’ve had a lot of openings lately, so I’m sure I can get you in.”

“Do you tutor a lot?” Neil asks as they walk through the Central Quad and _damn_ it’s really cold.

Kevin shrugs but it’s more a shiver. “Most weekdays, but like I said. I haven’t been as busy.”

“Do you like it?”

At this, Kevin nods again. “Totally. Nicky got me into helping with his tutoring group a couple semesters ago. He primarily works with the German language students, and some general linguists, but I take over the French and French history sessions. I know the language but I love helping teach the history and culture, too.” He stops when he realizes he’s started to ramble. “Sorry, that was long,” he mumbles.

There’s no response, but after a moment, Kevin feels a hand on his shoulder. A jolt of electricity runs up Kevin’s arm where Neil’s palm touches Kevin’s bare skin. The area where their skin meets burns. It’s the only part of Kevin that isn’t cold.

“Stop doing that,” Neil says seriously.

“Doing what?” Kevin shoots back, coming to an unsteady halt.

“Apologizing for doing like, anything.” Neil removes his hand and continues walking, leaving Kevin to catch up. Though that doesn’t take too much effort with their height difference. “And put on a jacket, you feel like the Arctic.”

“Have you been to the Arctic?” Kevin demands but opens his bag and pulls out a hoodie. He hadn’t prepared to walk so far outside with the clothes he’d packed. Is frostbite a thing in the South Carolina January? At least global warming made sure that this winter wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous ones. There isn’t even snow on the ground.

“Did you just… _thank_ global warming?” Neil snickers.

Kevin groans. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Reckon so.”

“Sor—“

Neil taps Kevin’s shoulder with his own. “Stop doing that,” he reminds. “Okay?”

Kevin doesn’t know what to say. No one’s ever defended Kevin against himself and his doubts. It’s a pleasant surprise. Which is why when Kevin blurts out, “Do you want to get something to eat?” he shouldn’t have been so mortified with himself.

Neil’s lips quirk slightly. “Oh. Sure.”

“You don’t have to,” Kevin rushes to assure. “Really. If you’d rather not, or have other plans—“

“Kevin,” Neil says and that’s all it takes for him to stop abruptly again. He feels his heart stutter at the sound of his name on Neil’s lips. “I said sure.”

“Oh. Okay then.” Kevin bobs his head self-consciously.

Neil rolls his eyes, his lips finally pulling into that feral grin.

“Okay.”

II.

Queenie’s is packed as usual when Neil and Kevin manage to snag a booth in the back of the burger joint. Thankfully for Kevin’s health, they were able to call an Uber instead of barreling through the chill. It’s a popular site off campus for both students of the university and city residents alike. They set their bags down on the floor and make small talk as they wait, but once the waitress walks away with their order, an almost awkward silence descends.

“So,” Kevin clears his throat. “How are you liking the school?”

Neil is playing with his straw wrapper but nods politely. “It’s... nice.”

“‘Nice’,” Kevin repeats with a small laugh. He thinks of the multi-million dollar garden on the front lawns, mini waterfalls and gold trimmed statues of foxes and hunters alike. He thinks of the lack of funding in the athletic divisions. Or the trust fund babies failing every class, yet passing with flying colors once they snort a line off a tenured professor’s lap in the teacher’s lounge. “That’s not the first words that comes to mind if I’m being honest.”

Neil brings a hand up to rub his jaw. There’s a dark, barely faded scar running from the base of his second knuckle to his wrist. It’s not like Kevin’s own scars. Where his are numerous, thin criss-crossed lines mapping a plane of mottled flesh and stretched over long healed bones, Neil’s is one deep slash splitting the skin on either side down the middle.He wonders if the wound continues merciless under the long sleeve covering Neil’s arms. Do more exist under the fabric? A chill runs down Kevin’s spine at the thought. The unease is not directed towards Neil, but towards whatever caused the injury. Or, whoever.

“It’s a bit grand, yeah,” Neil relents. Still not the word Kevin would use, but semantics. “But I’m getting used to it.”

“That’s good,” Kevin says. “You’ve been here, what—two months now?”

Neil shifts, looking slightly uneasy. “Two at the end of this month.”

He wants to ask where Neil transferred from, or why he transferred at all. But sensingNeil’s hesitance, Kevin decides to change the subject. Though he wants to know more about Neil, Neil’s obviously not comfortable yet to share so much. Kevin chooses to play it safe. “You said you used to play exy. What position did you play?”

The ice in Neil’s eyes starts to melt at the question before biting his lip in thought. “Backliner for a little bit. I had to quit after a few years, but it was...fun.” The way he says it sounds like a deep confession. Kevin begins to ask about Neil’s word choice when Neil shoots him his own question. “You’re a striker, right?”

Kevin offers an eager affirmative. “Born and raised.” Neil asks him a few more question about playing collegiate exy, nothing too serious but enough to show Kevin that Neil’s genuinely interested. On hearing Foxborough’s lack of enthusiasm concerning the game, Neil looks crestfallen. But Kevin responds to every question with delight. He loves the chance to discuss the sport he’s built his life around—especially when there’s almost no one besides his teammates he can do so with. Andrew usually tolerates Kevin’s rants, but rarely engages.

At the thought of Andrew, Kevin stumbles in his current rambling on the advantages of weighted racquets. Neil notices Kevin’s fallen face and asks if he’s okay.

Kevin nods reflexively. “Yeah. S—”

“Hey.” Neil clicks his tongue. “What did I say about that word?”

Kevin rolls his eyes but his smile betrays him. “Everyone’s offended by the English language these days,” he mutters, partially joking.

“Only half of it,” Neil returns the joke. “If it would make you feel better, you could speak in French. Then I’d have nothing to be offended about.”

Kevin gives in and laughs. The weight that’s been on Kevin’s chest since lord knows how long is slightly lifting with every second he spends with Neil. “How are you in level three French and don’t know a few words?”

Neil leans forward and discards the wrapper he’d been messing with. There’s a playful glint to his smirk. Despite the marks—including the marks—Kevin can’t help but admire how beautiful the boy in front of him is. He’s never considered another man besides Andrew ‘beautiful’, and the realization has Kevin’s mouth running dry.

But then Kevin remembers Andrew’s mixed signals in the student center; Andrew pushing him away in the dorms before returning to make peace; the hot and cold game Andrew plays again and again, driving Kevin up the walls.

With this reminder, Kevin can’t find the energy to feel too guilty about appreciating Neil’s company. The near heart-attack invoking, attractive side of the man is only a plus.

“I never said I don’t know _any_ French,” Neil points out. There’s an odd lilt to the way he says ‘never’ and Kevin wonders for the second time where he’s from. “I just said I needed a little extra help.”

Neil’s voice has dropped slightly and he’s leaned so far over the table that Kevin once again wonders if there’s another message present. He’s aware that Neil didn’t really answer the question and wonders if Neil is always this evasive. Matt’s voice echoes in his head: _Mystery boy._

But with Neil’s knees brushing against Kevin’s own under the table, he’s having a hard time fully concentrating on the deflection. Is Neil trying to make a joke about something? The sludge in Kevin’s stomach has morphed into a nervous swarm of monarchs. 

“Here you go, boys.” Their waitress materializes next to the booth. She sets down their orders, effectively breaking whatever _thing_ is happening or was happening or had happened or—

Kevin shakes his head at the waitress’s askance of getting them anything else and thanks her. She walks off and Kevin’s turns his eyes to his food. His appetite is starting to wane, and that’s a problem. He _always_ has an appetite.

“You’re allowed to eat,” Neil teases with a mouthful of fries. He’s leaned back and is no longer looking at Kevin in a way that was sending _very_ confusing signals down towards Kevin’s groin.

“Yeah. Um.” Back to incoherent mumblings, apparently. Kevin’s skin is still distractingly hot and he wonders if the waitress can bring him a cup of ice. “I,uh—I just remembered something, actually.” Neil raises an eyebrow as Kevin avoids his eyes to instead rifle through his backpack. The monarchs reluctantly begin to settle. He pushes his practice jersey aside and pulls out a planner. “Here.”

“What’s that?”

“A planner.”

Neil rolls his eyes. He’s an expert at that. _Stop focusing on his eyes_. “I can see that. Why?”

“Well, um. You said you needed tutoring,” Kevin bullshits. He flips through the pages slowly, anything to distract from looking at Neil. “I’m checking my calendar to make sure I’m free soon.”

Neil nets his brows in confusion. “I thought you said you have a lot of openings.”

“Ohh… did I really?” Kevin grimaces. “Guess you can never be too careful.” He flips another page and a crumpled piece of paper falls out.

“What’s that?” Neil leans forward again and points a fry at the paper.

“I don’t—“ Kevin pales. “Oh shit.”

“What?” Neil reaches for another fry but sees his platter is empty. He steals one from Kevin’s tray and pops it in his mouth. “Is it bad?”

Thanks to the turmoil of the past weeks, Kevin had almost forgotten about the strange script he’d found with Seth’s name on it. He tells Neil what he knows about the note, but leaves out just how shaken it had left him.

“Is this what you were reading when I found you?” Neil asks and _never-the-fuck mind_ about leaving out information. Kevin isn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned about how perceptive Neil is.

“Yeah, actually,” deciding honesty might be a somewhat sound policy. “I didn’t realize you saw that.”

Neil shrugs. “It’s just some notes. Not that big of a deal, right?”

“In most cases, sure, but it's who wrote that—it just caught me off guard.” Kevin picks at his salad but can’t bring himself to eat. Seth’s troubled face appears in his head and Kevin can’t shake the newfound idea that he should have known something was wrong.

“Gordon, you said?” Neil retrieves the note where Kevin had set it down and reads through it. “I heard he killed himself before I got here. But it’s probably just a weird coincidence. I mean, you did say he literally had a role with these lines.”

Kevin considers this. Neil’s words are similar to the same assurances Kevin tried to tell himself before. It’s not uncommon for the actors to modernize certain texts in order to get into the mindset of the characters. Heck, Kevin has done similar assignments just like that.

“I’m probably just overthinking it,” Kevin says more for his own sake than Neil’s.

Neil knows damn well Seth’s death wasn’t a coincidence. But Kevin doesn’t.

Neil sets the note down and examines Kevin’s poor attempt to appear unperturbed. “This really worried you, huh.” It’s not a question. Kevin begins to shrug him off, but Neil’s stubborn gaze has him relenting. 

“Have you shown it to anyone else?” Neil asks. “Talked about it with anyone?” He hesitates. “Maybe Andrew?”

At this, Kevin looks up. “Why Andrew?”

It comes out harsher than he intends, and Neil doesn’t respond for a moment. His mouth opens then closes, searching for words. “I thought…” Kevin’s hand twitches reflexively as he messes with his napkin. “Um. I heard you two were kind of a… thing?”

The statement ends on a curve, unsure. A part of Kevin knew he’d have to address this eventually. “Who’d you hear that from?”

Neil cocks his head. “Nicky.”

Kevin exhales. “Right.” Neil was introduced to the happy-go-lucky disaster after attending a month of classes and failing almost all outright. His professors recommended Nicky’s tutoring group, and while Kevin wants to be frustrated with his oversharing, he feels partially indebted to Nicky for introducing him and Neil.

And though Kevin wants to tell Neil he is just as confused about the whole ‘Andrew’ topic, it may also seem equally evasive. But he says as much. “It’s complicated.”

“Aren’t all good things?” Neil says quietly, and Kevin is struck once again at a loss for words. To distract himself again, he takes back the note and folds it up. He hasn’t made up his mind what—if anything—he’ll do with it, but he’s tired of the depressive air surrounding it.

“Andrew doesn’t like labels,” Kevin finds himself tentatively saying. There’s no formula in life for knowing how much to share with a new—friend? Is that what he and Neil are? Friend? Strangers bonding?—acquaintance. So his mouth decides before his mind can. “He finds that they’re…restricting.”

Neil ponders this. “Restricting what exactly?”

Oh, the irony.

“Hell if I know,” and it's bitter, Kevin’s so _goddamn_ bitter. Because he was having such an easy time with Neil and the reminder that the person he lo—no, cares for, doesn’t care enough to solidify any real meaning to their relationship is such a downer, it—

“Kevin.” Neil’s scarred hand is a breath away from his own shaking one. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push.”

“No, you’re—“ Kevin curls the unsteady fingers into a fist—“fine. You didn’t do anything. Unconscious reaction, is all.” He tries to lighten the mood, but Neil only regards him with more concern. It’s not pity, and Kevin’s thankful for that, but more like Neil is genuinely trying to understand the complexity of a child’s grief.

“Hey, Kevin!” A bright voice cuts through the thick air. The two turn their heads to meet a smiling pair of girls, both dressed in Foxborough spirit attire.

“Oh, hi. Renee.” Kevin offers up a silent prayer to the void for the interruption. He accepts a warm hug from his friend and nods politely in the direction of Allison Reynolds, her companion. An image of the note Kevin now has stuffed back in his planner flashes through his mind. He’s gonna need to burn the damn thing before he drives himself insane.

He swallows down rising guilt at the sight of Seth’s used-to-be-girlfriend. Not that he has anything to be guilty for; but that doesn’t stop the horrible sludge from settling in the pit of his stomach.

“Hi—Renee,” said woman introduces to Neil. She holds out an amicable hand to shake, and Neil takes it after an awkward pause. Allison simply waves perfectly manicured fingers in his direction. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. Sure. I’m Neil.” He glances towards Kevin in a I’m-trying-to-be-polite-but-it’s-taking-too-much-energy kind of way. Kevin restrains the urge to smile at him.

“I think you’re in my Econ class,” Allison says to Neil. She doesn’t seem to pick up on Neil’s obvious discomfort at the sudden increase in conversationalists.

“It’s kind of busy here. Do you mind if we sit with you?” Renee asks and Kevin agrees just as Neil opens his mouth to do the opposite. “Thanks, Kev.” She slides into the booth next to him and Allison takes the seat alongside Neil, who looks even more uncomfortable. Kevin makes a mental note to ask about that later.

“We were just finishing up—” Neil starts but Allison cuts him off.

“So how do you guys know each other?” She levels a glance between him and Kevin. To the latter, she asks with a grin, “We’re not interrupting anything, are we?”

Kevin coughs as Neil stares unblinkingly ahead at the booth behind Kevin. “Uh no, we were just grabbing a bite to eat,” Kevin explains. “I’m helping Neil with some classes, though.”

Renee beams. “Oh, that tutoring group? That’s nice.” With anyone else, the comment would seem almost insincere. But with Renee, you know she means every word she says. She’s not dissimilar to Andrew in that regard. Maybe that’s why she and Andrew get along so well. Kevin has almost never understood their dynamic, but there’s history between Renee and Andrew Kevin will never unearth.

She examines Neil curiously. “Neil, do you play exy?”

Neil cocks his head to the side. Kevin notices he has a habit of it, and it never fails to remind Kevin of the world’s cutest cocker spaniel.

_Wait, what._

“Not really,” Neil says. “Is everyone at this school obsessed with exy?”

Allison delivers a snort that doesn’t match her appearance. “Not even close. But if you hang out with Kevin, it’s almost a requirement.”

“That’s not true,” Kevin argues as Renee chuckles. “I hang out with you two, you know.”

Allison steals a fry from Kevin’s plate and receives a playful slap for her efforts. “That’s why I said ‘almost a requirement’. And you only put up with me because of _Antigone_.”

“Alli was just telling me about that, actually,” Renee butts in. “I heard you’re playing Haemon.”

Kevin nods. “We’re performing a modern take on the tragedy. I was hoping to be casted in _The History Boys_ but Abby is sticking the sophomores and—“

“He only wants that because Knox is in History Boys,” Allison tells Renee pointedly.

“Not true,” Kevin sputters while Allison and Renee laugh, sharing a knowing look.

“Who’s that?” Neil asks innocently.

“Kevin’s Prince Charm—“

“Alli, if you finish that sentence—“

“You’ll what?” Allison demands. She shoves another fry into her mouth.

Kevin rolls his eyes. “Oh shut up. I beg of you to just stick to your directions, at least.”

Allison laughs while Renee scrunches her nose at her friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He means,” Allison says, “that he doesn’t want me ordering the ugliest suit coat in all of North America for him again.”

“Again?” Neil repeats. He looks like he’s trying to hide a grin. Kevin curses him.

“She’s head of the costume department,” Kevin explains to Neil. “Sometimes she’ll fill in for minor roles, too. It’s not a normal or recommended practice, but our program is smaller than the average and Alli is actually good—oh stop looking at me like that Alli, yes I complimented you—but she sure knows how to pick favorites when it comes to dressing us.”

“And I’m damn well good at my job,” Allison adds, stealing another fry.

“Whatever. And stop eating my fries.”

“You’re not eating them,” she notes.

Renee sticks up for Kevin’s poor sides. “Stop eating his fries. I’ll order for us,” she promises.

Neil looks at Kevin, teeth flashing. “Can I have your fries?”

“Yeah, of course.” He pushes the tray over to Neil and Allison guffaws.

“Excuse me,” she says, “Favorites, you were saying?”

Kevin flushes but Neil just laughs in triumph of his spoils. “Well, uh.” Kevin coughs again. “He asked nicely.”

Allison wrinkles her nose at Neil. “You win this round.”

“So, if not exy, why does Kevin put up with you?” Neil asks Renee.

“What’s not to love?” Allison says at the same time Renee answers, “We’ve known eachother awhile.”

“What they mean to say is we played exy together when we were kids,” Kevin clarifies.

Neil looks between the pair. “Oh, so there’s an actual reason.” Kevin isn’t able to hide his laugh this time and Renee observes them in politely concealed interest. Her eyes flicker over the marks on Neil’s exposed flesh. “So you two grew up together?” 

“Sort of. I played _against_ Kev in little league,” Renee smiles. “But we lived close and hung out a lot. Except I moved away by middle school and… picked up new interests.” She plays with a stray lock of orange dyed hair and shrugs. “Lost touch with Kev for awhile, but it all worked out in the end.”

As she always does when her past is mentioned, she possesses the quiet appearance of a healing sadness. He knows that what she’s told Neil is true, but only the tip of the iceberg. Her parents were gunned down when she was in fifth grade. _A rival family_ , she had told him, cheeks tearstained and numb, right before she disappeared for years. When he met up with her again at Fox, she was living with another couple, friends of her parents who’d willingly adopted her. They sponsored her admission to Fox, and the rest is history.

But for all that Kevin knows about his friend, he’s still never heard the full story of what she went through after moving. _The rest is history_ doesn’t mean much when the past is so censored and volatile. He’s not sure he wants to know the depths of the maze which make up her life. Whatever it was, it was bad. Like, 20/20 crime doc bad. But then again, most of Foxborough’s students have a similar story in their past. Kevin has his own skeletons, of course—what he went through with the Moriyama’s was just one incident of many—but _plaise à Dieu_ , they’ll stay away to collect dust for the rest of his days.

Studying the man across from him, he wonders what Neil’s story is. The marks across his skin are definitely an eye-turner, as most students carry their scars internally. But Neil’s don’t repulse Kevin. Far from it, in fact.

“You lost touch with me too,” Allison reminds Renee, but she smiles teasingly. “Our parents were friends,” she explains on Neil’s behalf. To Renee she says, “Blind luck that I found you at Fox after all these years.”

Renee sweetly rolls her eyes, forlorn air washing away. “That was the work of Elohim, Alli, not luck.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Renee laughs and Kevin wonders just when the two got so close again. He knew Allison and Renee were hanging out, but after their fight at the beginning of the semester he hadn’t realized they were so comfortable. But it’s refreshing to see Allison so easily happy again.

After Seth’s death, there was long portion of time he wondered if she would ever recover. For all the insignificant guilt Kevin has surrounding the newfound note, he can’t imagine what Allison had felt. For one to know another so intimately, yet be unaware of the demons their love holds so close—so oblivious they can’t see the incoming end of it all…

That is a form of guilt no language can truly express. There is no fault, no blame to be held in these cases, maybe save for the demons that brought it all about. And yet, the human soul is a fallen one, self-destructive. Where guilt should grow, the soil may stay barren. Where the soil should rather be salted and bare, guilt stubbornly springs.

Vicious cycles.

“Renee is a dancer,” Kevin says aloud to disrupt the dark trail of his thoughts. He smiles appreciably at her. “ _Danseuse_. She’s really good.”

Neil’s eyes flash indecipherably. “Ballet?” He confirms and Renee answers an affirmative. “Why?” he asks and Kevin notices its the first time in the conversation Neil seems genuinely curious about her answer. Kevin sympathizes. Why anyone would choose slippers and frills over the racquets and guards of exy, he’ll never understand.

“I started playing exy for the physical release,” Renee explains to Neil. “But there came a time when I needed a mental challenge as much as the physical. Ballet was the answer. It’s—“

“Soft,” Kevin offers as Allison finishes, “Hot.” They consider each other for a moment and Renee just scoffs, amused.

“Ballet isn’t ‘soft’,” Renee says gently.

 _Did you just say ‘hot’?_ Kevin mouthes to Allison, who in turn feigns ignorance. Neil doesn’t know where to look.

“In many ways,” Renee continues, her eyes glinting with the pride of many secrets, “dance can be a weapon.”

“Yeah,” Allison quickly agrees, “if you step on the right toes hard enough.”

Surprisingly, it’s Neil who laughs. It’s low and short, but what causes Kevin to smile is the sincerity of the sound.

“I think I understand what Renee is saying, though,” Neil says after a pause. Tentative, but determined to participate in the conversation.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” A shadow crosses his face. Kevin remembers the careful look Allison and Renee had exchanged when they first saw the marks on Neil’s skin.

“How so?” Allison asks.

Neil bites his lip. “Well. Art is the purest form of power, after all. Good or bad; great or terrible.” Kevin’s grin fades as he watches Neil stare down at the cup he picked up, lips pursed in thought. “My mum used to say that.”

There it is again. That strange inflection in his voice when he says certain words. Foreign, but almost disguised. Allison and Renee don’t seem to react at it, and Kevin decides to file the information away in his ever-expanding mental folder on Neil.

“I’ve never taken a dance class,” Neil clarifies with an uneasy chuckle, “but ballet _is_ a form of art. A form of power.” When he raises his gaze from his cup to meet Kevin’s eyes, the surrounding noise in the joint fades from Kevin’s ears. _Decrescendo_. It’s an unsettling experience that he is only distantly aware, focus aimed only on the man in front of him. The sight of Neil’s fingers curled around his glass, mark after crimson mark branding that flawless skin. It’s overwhelming, and it’s all Kevin knows.

“And power is always, inevitably, a weapon,” Neil finishes. “So, yeah, I see where she’s coming from.”

The gears of physics shake into action and Kevin can finally hear the bustle of the restaurant around him again. Sharp and staccato. Though sound has returned, he feels emptier than he had before. Like the fatal wishes of those damned sailors, nothing is enough, save for the song of the siren. All other noise is arbitrary.

“You good, Kev?” Renee nudges him with her elbow. Allison and Neil are arguing good-naturally over something, oblivious to the concern passing between the two. “You look pale.”

Kevin swallows. He wonders if the sailors knew that they would never resurface. Would they even have cared?

“I will be,” he tells her honestly. “I think… I think need to call Andrew.”

III.

Andrew doesn’t pick up on the first try. Nor the second.

By the third attempt, Kevin isn’t sure whether to be angry or concerned.

“Maybe he’s in class,” Neil suggests on the Uber ride over. Kevin had yet to explain his sudden need to talk to Andrew, and Neil blessedly didn’t push.

Kevin huffs a breath. “He doesn’t have class today. He’s ignoring me.” He’d been ignoring Kevin ever since the spat in the student union.

 _Maybe that isn't fair_ , Kevin reasons. He remembers the night Andrew came to his dorm, a couple days after the...fight? Disagreement? He’d wanted to hang out, but Kevin had fumbled an excuse last minute. _I’ve been ignoring him just the same._

Neil shifts in his seat. “I’m sure he’s fine.” _You think everything is fine_. “Is something wrong?”

Never mind about pushing. “No, it—” Kevin bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe,” he relents. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything it seems when it comes to him.”

Twin ridges crease along Neil’s forehead.“I’m lost. What do you mean?”

 _Wish I knew._ “We haven’t really...” Kevin struggles to find the right words. Part of him recognizes he shouldn’t dump his sort-of-relationship-but-one-of-us-won’t-call-it-that problems on Neil. The other part yearns for Neil to know. That part doesn’t have a rat’s ass idea why. “We haven’t been talking a lot lately, I guess. It’s just that—”

Kevin hits his head against the seat rest. “Really, it’s stupid. You don’t need to hear about my problems.”

Neil shrugs. “I don’t _need_ to hear it, sure. But _you_ need to let this—” he gestures vaguely towards Kevin—“whatever this is—out.”

Kevin considers this for a moment. Searching Neil’s eyes, that icy expanse cold enough to burn, Kevin decides. Without thinking too hard, Kevin tells Neil. About the sort-of-relationship-but-one-of-us-won’t-call-it-that issue. About Andrew’s jealousy problem. For a second, Kevin almost confides to Neil about Andrew’s other problem, the one dominated by white flakes and red eyes, but at the moments clams up. Andrew’s inheritance, like almost every student at Foxborough, is more than enough to buy the administration’s silence. For Kevin, one harsh kiss and the memory of that heat keeps his lips sealed.

There’s more than that, of course.

There’s that silly, childish hope that if Kevin doesn’t acknowledge Andrew’s addiction, then it will all go away.

It won’t. But that’s the funny thing about hope. You hold on to it even when it’s dragging you over the precipice. Even in to death.

But he tells Neil most of it, and the pressure in his lungs eases greater than it's ever been before.

“I understand,” Neil says slowly after a minute. “I think. But what does all this have to do with leaving the restaurant? I mean, this isn’t new, as you said. So why all of a sudden is this so important?”

Ah. The million dollar question.

Kevin feels his cheeks flushing but there’s nothing to do about it. He owes Neil the truth about this, even if Neil isn’t so keen on offering the truth about himself.

“You know how I said that I don’t know what Andrew and I really are to each other?” Kevin waits for Neil’s small nod of confirmation. “It’s stupid but...I don’t know what I have the _right_ to do. And what I _don’t_ have the—the right to do. Or, I _do_ know what I have the right to do but I wish I didn’t have that right.” He’s rambling and he can’t stop.

“Spell it out for me, Kevin,” Neil says. “What does that mean, ‘have the right to do?’”

Kevin chews on his lip for a moment. He’s never been one for blatancy, but he doesn’t know how else to get this conversation over with. How is talk about feelings so tiresome?

“Andrew has always said I can see other people,” Kevin finally spits out. “And he can see whoever too. And I used to hate that because I thought it meant he didn’t care enough about us to be exclusive.”

“Okayyyy.” Neil cricks his jaw. “Wait—used?”

Neil raises a brow but Kevin’s still talking. “Andrew refuses to label us as anything. Every time I bring up the question, ‘Are we exclusive or not?’ he changes the subject. Or he’ll say something like, ‘Don’t be naive, Day.’” _Or he’ll flat out leave on me_ , Kevin adds to himself. A lump forms in his throat. “Naive,” he repeats. “How is wanting to know if I’m—or wanting to be—in a relationship with the man I’ve been in—”

He’s never stopped talking so fast in his life.

“Oh,” Neil says. That’s all. Oh.

The Uber driver casts a curious glance through the rear view mirror before looking back at the road.

“Kevin, do you want to see other people?” Neil asks tentatively.

Never before but…

He looks away, but the memories cloud his vision. Neil leaning close—so close—to him in the library; Neil’s soft smile when Kevin rants about the teammate who can’t pass an exy ball to save her life; Neil defending Kevin from Kevin’s own black thoughts, Neil, who Kevin doesn’t really know but wants to, _heavens_ he wants to—

 _You want too much_. Andrew’s words. Oh God, Andrew.

Because mixed within those memories are the ones of Andrew. The day Kevin transferred to Foxborough, when Andrew took one look at him and rolled those damning eyes, but near bit the hand off anyone who got too close to Kevin. _Minotaur_ , Nicky had laughed.

The times when the nightmares got too much, and his roommate didn’t know what to do. But past the tears and the shaking and the racing of his heart he’d asked for Andrew and Andrew _came_ and he didn’t tell Kevin he was overreacting or to stop crying. In fact, he barely reacted at all. It made the fear easier to control while Andrew silently held him.

The first time Andrew had held his hand, when the still healing muscles and bones rebelled, when Kevin had wanted nothing more than to cut the broken limb off.

The first time Andrew kissed him and nearly sent Kevin into cardiac arrest.

The first time they’d made love.

While Kevin and Andrew can deny their feelings aloud as much as they want, he refuses to call what they did anything other than an act of love. To say they’d ‘fucked’ is too primal. It would undermine the sincerity, the purity of the way Andrew had marked him, claimed him. Animals fuck. On occasion, humans can be even more bestial. But there was nothing animalistic about that night. No, that night, when Andrew had touched him, had been inside him, had torn Kevin inside out and made him anew—

Their love that night was godly. 

The urge to see Andrew, to find, no _beg_ for confirmation that Andrew will—will what? What do you want Day? _You want too much._ A tidal wave of need.

Kevin feels sick as the car drives on, but it's not from the movement of the vehicle. It's the chasms in his thoughts, the shakings in his lungs, the stirrings in his heart. Emotional motion sickness.

“I want to see him,” Kevin answers instead. Because in this moment, that’s the only thing he is sure of.

“Okay,” Neil says, but it’s obvious it’s not.

The driver makes a turn and Foxborough’s campus appears a couple blocks ahead. Neil was so, so close. But in the end, he can’t stop himself from speaking his mind.

“I know it’s not my place,” he starts, “But it’s really not fair to you. You shouldn’t have to deal with this guilt or frustration because of a guy who won’t promise to stay loyal to you. It’s not fair, and you don’t need to hold yourself back from being happy if Andrew obviously isn’t making you a priority.”

The mini speech would make anyone of sound mind burst with warmth to be defended from being treated like Kevin had. But Kevin obviously passed ‘sound mind’ years ago, didn’t collect 200.

“You’re right, it’s not your place.” With anyone else, he’d have probably been beyond pissed, and part of him still is. But he just feels unsure and so, so tired. “Look, Andrew’s a good guy,” he finds himself adding. Defending Andrew, like always. Even after everything. “I don’t want to hurt him, even inadvertently.”

“Inadvertently,” Neil snorts, but there’s no humor. His voice lilts again and if Kevin weren’t so overwhelmed he’d almost have thought Neil sounded British. “You don’t want to ‘inadvertently’ hurt him by going out with someone else, but that’s exactly the understanding you two have. Have you ever even considered that that might be exactly what he’s doing?”

Kevin blinks. For a second, Kevin thinks the world has stopped moving.

Then he realizes it’s just the car that has stilled before a red light.

“What do you mean.” A statement.

Neil almost looks sympathetic. The burn marks on his face provide a chilling contrast. “That really never crossed your mind?”

That Andrew would be the one to go around with someone else? Touching and kissing and breathing someone else’s existence in behind Kevin’s back?

But, the devil on Kevin’s shoulder says, is it really going behind your back? You said it yourself, he made no promises to stay exclusive.

Fuck the devil. Fuck him all to hell.

“No,” Kevin spits. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. And even if he did…like I said. He never promised to stay exclusive.”

“Hey,” Neil looks as if he’s about to place a hand on Kevin’s shoulder, but he retracts at the last moment. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know,” Kevin whispers because it’s taking all his energy not to do something embarrassing, like bawl in the backseat of an Uber next to a man he barely knows but who sort of knows him.

This whole time, could Andrew really have been telling the truth? That he and Kevin meant nothing more than a hard fuck or a way to pass the day? The real possibility truly never had occurred to him.

 _The possibility had never occurred to him,_ he realizes. Because he knows Andrew wouldn’t do such a thing. Wouldn’t use Kevin like some random body to find pleasure in.Because no matter how callous his words can be, Andrew’s actions always betrayed him. And Andrew, in action, has never betrayed Kevin.

 _Your love is godly_ , Kevin once thought of Andrew. _All consuming, all destroying, never False. I’d worship you despite the odds._

“I didn’t realize,” Neil says quietly after a few uneasy minutes, “that you were keeping all that in.”

Kevin tries to smile but it’s more of a grimace. “Doesn’t everyone? Keep everything in, that is?”

Until it’s all too much and it’s all too loud and—

The Uber pulls into the entrance gate.

And with a great roaring whimper—

“Here you are, boys,” the driver says, pulling to a stop.

It’s over.

Neil’s eyes darken as he unbuckles his seat belt. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

IV.

Danseuse offers a smile to the woman next to her. She reads the text she sent one last time and sighs.

**_To_ _J: You were right about him._ **

“You good?” Allison asks, slipping her hand into Danseuse’s. Their partnership, for lack of better words, is new for both of them. It started weeks before, unexpectedly but not unwanted. They haven't found the care to tell others just yet and Danseuse sometimes wonders what Joseph will say. She knows of his masochistic abstinence from commitment. It's ridiculous, really, seeing as he's never had any want for another person besides Kevin. And she knows he knows he's being trivial. But he hasn't given in, not yet; though she knows it will be soon, if the self-inflicted pain in Joseph's eyes or Kevin's heart is any indication. Joseph can't bear to harm Kevin any further, especially emotionally. 

“Always,” Danseuse lies. They haven't left Queenie's just yet, appreciating each other's company. Allison had moved to the other woman's side of the booth and now smiles, leaning over. Her curls tickle Danseuse’s cheeks as Allison’s lips find hers. Danseuse can’t help but smile at the soft touch before reciprocating the gesture, a welcome rush of affection coursing through her.

Another text vibrates from the phone. When Allison leans away to sip from her drink, Danseuse looks down at the message.

**_From J: Bingo_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you THANK you @justwhatialwayswanted for beta-ing this chapter   
> Chapters updated every Sunday!
> 
> Chapter Title from Phoebe Bridgers' Emotional Motion Sickness  
> Works Referenced:  
> Sophocles' Antigone  
> Alan Bennett's The History Boys


	7. What is History to a Moment's Reprieve?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin and Andrew have a chat. Statements are made. Revelations unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: short but graphic description of self harm/ mutilation to the face; references to old sc*rs;

I.

Andrew takes one last look at the text he sent.

From out in the hall, someone laughs.

He throws the phone across the room, device sliding under a fallen pillow on the floor. Kevin will receive his note within the hour.

It’s time to make things right.

(There’s so much time left)

But he wonders if it’s too late.

II.

Kevin wants to punch a wall.

He’s never been the violent sort. There’s just been too much horror in his own past to warrant violent behavior now. In exy, he’ll get a little rough every once in awhile. In theatre, he can drop into a mean facade.

But with Andrew? No, he’s never been violent. 

So when he gets out of the Uber and goes to Andrew’s dorm, only to find a note on the door with the word, _Yours_ , Kevin is taken aback by the red clouding his vision.

_I am not violent. I am not violent._

_I am a fucking_ pacifist _with patience issues._

_I am_ not _violent._

“Kevin.” Neil’s hand touches Kevin’s shoulder, and it’s so light, it’s so soft. A crazed part of Kevin wonders if Neil is scared to touch him.

Pacifism never ends wars.

_He’s not scared of me. I’m the one who’s scared._

_Maybe everybody in the whole damn world is scared of each other._

“I’m fine.” Great, now he’s sounding like Neil. Kevin crumples the note _(Yours)_ in his hand. He almost isn’t aware of the shaking.

“He could have at least texted,” Kevin manages to choke out. He turns and heads toward his own dorm room _(Yours)_ a few hallways over.

“At least he left a note,” Neil offers as he runs to catch up with Kevin. “That’s a good thing, right?”

Kevin scoffs but offers no response. When they arrive in front of his door, Kevin almost has half the mind to knock before reprimanding himself.

“I don’t need permission to enter my own room,” he mutters.

“What was that?” Neil asks but Kevin’s already opening the door.

And there he is. The man of the hour. Andrew ‘I don’t answer my phone unless it’s convenient for me’ Minyard himself, lounging on Kevin’s duvet like he owns the damn thing. Which, he kind of does, since he bought Kevin the silken comforter as a gift a couple months before.

“You,” Andrew greets cheerily.

Kevin will never notice the tension in Andrew’s shoulders, the one obvious but forgotten tell that could have signaled the blonde’s own uncertainty to Kevin. In his own whirlpool of emotion, he doesn’t see Andrew’s struggling raft. C’est la vie.

Andrew’s gaze finds Neil standing behind Kevin. His smirk sharpens. _Bingo_.“And _you_.”

"A pleasure, as always," Neil coughs.

“Andrew,” Kevin says and he has to stop there. Before the waterfall of words unleashes.

Andrew leans back against the bed’s headboard, arm propped up on his knee. Relaxed. He looks between Kevin and Neil again, still frozen at the door. “Am I interrupting something?”

He doesn’t trust Neil. Not yet. But he’s curious, nevertheless. Adorat arcanum.

“No,” Neil answers. His eyes track Andrew’s posture and Andrew returns the gesture, eyes heated in a way Kevin can’t read.

“I was just leaving.” Neil doesn’t, though.

Andrew thinks he hears warning chimes but that’s just the University bells signaling the hour. He looks away from Neil. _Ich werde später mit dir spielen._

Kevin shakes his head but moves towards Andrew. He holds up the note ( _Yours_ ) to the other man. “I called you. Three times.”

Andrew quirks a brow. “Good for you.”

Neil makes a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. They ignore him.

“Why didn’t you answer?” Kevin continues.

“I did.”

Kevin crumples the note in his fist. “Stop _lying_ to me. No, you didn’t.”

“I. Did.” Andrew leans forward and places his hand over Kevin’s clenched one. Gently, he pries Kevin’s fingers apart and touches the wrinkled paper in his hand. “And you received.”

Kevin huffs a breath through his nose. “I meant your phone.”

“Does it matter my mode of communication as long as you get the message?” Andrew tuts.

Kevin wants to argue but he’s not sure what he’s fighting against. “I was just worried.”

“Oh?” Andrew rubs circles on the back of Kevin’s hand. “How sweet of you.”

“Goddamnit, Andrew, I’m serious.”

“I didn’t doubt that you weren’t.”

From the door, Neil clears his throat. “Weren’t you leaving?” Andrew reminds him. He doesn’t look away from Kevin, though, as Neil nods sharply and closes the door.

Kevin wishes Neil had stayed. At the same time, he's thankful that the man won't be witness to whatever's about to happen.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, and Kevin’s not sure what Andrew means by it. He’s so sick and tired of not knowing what Andrew means. “Come here.”

Kevin’s a strong man. But he’s never had much will to refuse Andrew. Even now, drenched in nervous and angry energy. He lets Andrew pull him down to the bed, legs straddling Andrew’s lap. His hands itch to touch, to move, to do _something_ , but of the many things he is, he’s not selfish. He thinks he’s dropped the note ( _Yours_ ) but he doesn’t care enough to worry.

“Here.” After a vocal agreement, Andrew guides Kevin’s hands to lay palms flat against his chest. When Andrew leans forward, a part of Kevin aches to stop, to demand the answer he’s come for. But his tongue betrays him and the _yes_ is out of his mouth faster than his tendency to faint. As if it even had a coherent route, his train of frantic thought is thoroughly wrecked when Andrew’s lips claim his.

Just like the man himself, Andrew’s kiss is brutal and unforgiving. But Kevin has never felt less repentant in his life.

“Where’s Nicky?” Kevin tries to ask when they stop to breathe, but he’s struggling to do just that and the words barely leave his mouth. “Nicky—”

“Isn’t here,” Andrew says against Kevin’s lips. Sensing something is off, that damned sixth sense, he pulls away. Despite everything—the anger, the confusion, the pain—Kevin finds himself chasing Andrew’s touch. _Don’t leave. Pl—Don’t leave me._

Even in thought it hurts to betray.

Andrew shifts and moves Kevin off of him to gently lean Kevin against the headboard. Tilting his head at the expression on Kevin’s face, he says, “What.” Not a question. A bid.

Kevin wills his breathing to even. Waterfall, waterfall, don’t drown us now. He remembers the last time they talked in Kevin's dorm and what a disaster that turned into. He doesn’t know if he can bear to undergo such again.

But if he doesn’t speak now, he never will.

The anger, the confusion, the pain—it all festers. Flashes of thought appear in his mind's eye:

Andrew saying, _I won’t handle people touching what is mine;_

Seth spitting, _The only thing I’m good for is how much people like you can use me;_

Neil scoffing, _You don’t need to hold yourself back from being happy if Andrew obviously isn’t making you a priority._

Kevin means to speak but instead a sinkhole erupts, a desperate culmination of all his thoughts and worries from the past months:

“Andrew, _I don’t want to feel used anymore.”_

Do shadows mock our words along with our lives? An interesting horror.

Kevin thinks he might throw up his salad.

As the silence extends, a force powerful enough to invoke an absent god, Kevin waits to be dragged into the earth.

Andrew thinks, _I did this. Time after time again. I did this._

Andrew thinks, _It’s like history. I know history. There are many names in history._

Andrew thinks, _But none of them are our’s._

An ocean, a millenium, a breath apart—

Kevin thinks, _I don’t want this to be the end of our history._

“Do I make you feel used?” Andrew asks quietly. His previous cockiness is gone; he’s not defensive nor angry, but genuinely wondering. Kevin is a learned man but in the face of Andrew, he may as well be illiterate.

Despite thinking this is what he wanted, he now has the urge to lie, to dangle the truth just out of reach to end the conversation as quickly as it’d begun. But he can’t ignore the pain any longer.

“Yes.” It’s no more than a whisper. More of a rush of breath, a pathetic whimper. “Not all the time, but yes.”

Andrew looks at Kevin but Kevin can’t look at him. _This is the moment_ , Kevin realizes, _when it ends. When he says I want too much._

_When he leaves me._

Kevin was wrong before. Andew leaving isn’t like the end of the world. This is worse.

“Drew _—“_

“How can I show you I don’t want to?”

Kevin’s gaze snaps up from where he was intensely focusing on his scarred hand. He almost talks, mouth open, but no words come out. _You look like a fish_ , Andrew would always say.

“What?”

“How can I show you,” Andrew repeats slowly, deliberately, eyes piercing Kevin with more intent than mere words could convey, “that I don’t want. To use you. How can I…” He stops, struggling.

“How can I change that,” He finishes and Kevin’s chest hitches at the almost-but-not-quite-close-enough, Andrew’s-non-version of an apology.

He would never apologize, though. There aren’t enough words—or possibly, never the right words—in any language for Andrew to do such.

So, no. Not an apology. But an offering. One that should never have to have been offered in the first place, because under any normal circumstances, Andrew would never have done anything to put Kevin in this place.

But their history will never be like the rest of our’s.

And Kevin’s not slamming the door on the branch which Andrew _is_ extending.

“Don’t leave,” Kevin says, leaning forward to be as close as possible but not touching. “P—God, don’t leave.”

It’s not what Andrew was expecting to hear, that much is apparent. Kevin wasn’t expecting this opportunity, either, so go figure.

“You always leave when we talk about—about this,” Kevin rushes to explain. “Don’t leave me tonight.”  
  
“I—“ Andrew sighs, but Kevin has the feeling it’s not for his sake, “—I won’t.”

Kevin’s hand starts to tremble in relief, phantom pains. It’s so slight he thinks only he realizes it but Andrew does and envelops his hand in his.

“You can stay,” Kevin finally says after he’s taken his fill of watching their joined hands in amazement. Andrew quirks a brow. “To fix this. Just stay. Don’t make me into some temporary distraction.” _Not like last time_. He murmurs another plea in French, knowing that Andrew will understand the intention without his skin crawling.

“Okay,” Andrew agrees after a moment. He moves the hand not rubbing circles into Kevin’s palm to Kevin’s face, finger lightly tracing the damaged skin.

Despite being over a year since the event, he can remember the day it happened as if it were an hour ago. They both can. Fed up with the last threads tethering him to the Moriyama’s, Kevin snuck into the Arts and Architecture building. He didn't even have to pick a lock; a handful of shearing scalpels littered the second craftsmen table he came across.

Taking the blade to his left cheekbone, all his second thoughts washed away. He barely even used the mirror in the room to cut and slice the tattoo-ed skin; he knew the marked terrain of his face better than some know their own soul.

But cutting didn’t solve the problem. The number two, still visible but deformed past salvaging, could almost be seen even past the many cicatrices warping Kevin’s cheekbone.

So he dug the scalpel in further, scooping the blade at the last second to rid of any and all of Riko’s last poison. Kevin claims to not be a masochist, but the flow of blood down his face was the greatest relief he’d felt since birth. Thankfully, the pain didn’t become an addiction.

But it was close. Too close.

Andrew didn’t say anything when he saw the injury. He didn’t speak even as he washed away the dried and some still flowing blood. He didn’t say a word as he shoved Kevin into the Uber and followed alongside him into the seat, holding Kevin’s hand with a death grip as the driver sped concernedly to the hospital.

It was only after—hours, seconds, years, it didn’t matter—when they finally got back to Fox, new stitches keeping Kevin’s left cheek intact, when Andrew spoke.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he promised. He held Kevin’s face gently in his hands, eyes boring down like the all-seeing gaze of Amun. “And that includes you from yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin had whispered. But that was the problem. He wasn’t. And Andrew knew.

“Is this what you were worried about?” Andrew asks in the present, saving Kevin from his memories. “Me leaving?”

You leaving me for good.

“Yes,” Kevin confesses. Hesitation, then: “A-Always.”

A dark shadow crosses Andrew’s face and Kevin thinks ridiculously, _I don’t want you to stop holding my hand_.

“Mea culpa,” Andrew murmurs more to himself than Kevin. The hand on Kevin’s face moves to settle a fist over Andrew’s heart, thumping the hand against his chest stoically. But blessedly, he doesn’t let the other one on Kevin’s go. “Mea maxima culpa.”

Kevin thinks that if one were to sketch their souls at this moment of existence, the canvas would crumble and break apart and be swallowed into the same sinkhole that Kevin is destined to be buried within.

Kevin says, “What does that mean?”

Andrew says instead, “I will stay.”

He wonders what color scheme would adorn their portrait.

And: “There’s something else. Something else bothering you.”

He thinks there would be so much blue. Enough to drown in.

While the roots of Kevin’s worries all lead to the same damned trunk, such roots grow in a multitude of variation. The thickest stems are his paranoia, his fears, his insecurities. Of being wrong, of being last, of being second to every possible choice.

Next comes the shame. The guilt. His own self-administered poison.

A noose of regret.

But he’s not ready to tie that rope yet. So he says:

“Can we talk about it later? It’s…not as pressing. Just you being here is enough. I just want to, I don’t know. Watch a movie or something. Anything with you.”

Andrew purses his lips as if considering dragging the rest out of Kevin but he eventually nods—it’ll come out soon enough. But they don’t move from their places just yet. It’s as if they’re sculptures of fragile ice, ready to chip and melt if they so much as breathe too suddenly. Andrew settles on rubbing small circles into the ridge of Kevin’s palm, a near unconscious gesture, and Kevin steadies his pulse to the beat of the other’s touch.

“You tell me,” Andrew finally says. He meets Kevin’s eyes and they both know it’s a struggle, a rupture in the frost. “You tell me if I ever make you feel less than you are again.”

His voice doesn’t waver; no inflection, no swing. No room for argument.

Kevin says softly, “Okay.”

Kevin says, eyes blinking rapidly, “Thank you.”

Andrew’s gaze mitigates around the corners. “Idiot,” he murmurs gently.

Eventually, he lets go of Kevin. But it’s only momentarily to allow Kevin to pull out his laptop before they both readjust on the small bed. Now, both leaning against the headboard, Kevin almost falls into Andrew’s lap. He doesn’t quite mind the situation as long as Andrew allows it.

“Where did you and the fox go tonight?” Andrew asks without preamble as Kevin takes a moment to appreciate his close proximity to Andrew. To distract himself (an attempt, more so), he makes an effort to scroll through the Netflix listings.

Kevin doesn’t know what prompted Neil’s nickname and his heart stumbles momentarily over Andrew’s question.

_Why?_ he asks himself. He doesn’t have an answer. He knows there’s no reason to feel guilty over eating a meal together. But he still nearly pauses in his scrolling, overthinking his own actions.

Is Andrew angry? He doesn’t sound it, but that’s never much indication.

He knows he’s being ridiculous with his worries, but that doesn’t stop a lifetime of ingrained self-doubt. Besides, Andrew isn’t tensed in any way that hints he’s prepared topush Kevin away—literally nor figuratively.

“Queenie’s,” Kevin finally says. As if reading his thoughts, Andrew’s trails a light hand over the bones of Kevin’s wrist. _Stay. Stay. You’re okay._

Could it be that? Were they really okay? But Kevin knows history, especially their own, and he’s aware any slight misstep can send Andrew spinning out of orbit from him.

Is it the sun that exiles her subjects? Or do the planets rebel first?

Kevin turns back to the laptop screen before he burns himself up. There’s a new documentary on exy. Maybe Andrew will agree to watch that—

“He needs more tutoring so we’d been making plans,” Kevin adds without realizing he’d made the decision to do so.

“For French?”

“Oiu.”

Andrew doesn’t respond to that.

“Oiu means _yes_ ,” Kevin clarifies.

Andrew pinches Kevin’s shoulder. “ _Klugscheißer_.”

Kevin coughs a laugh and Andrew rubs his jaw in thought with the hand not still connected to Kevin. “Is he not fluent?”

“Huh?” He isn’t expecting that statement. He looks up from the blurb he’d been pretending to read. “Why do you say that?”

Andrew shrugs, the movement rubbing against Kevin’s back from where he lays half against Andrew’s chest. “Passed him in the Humanities building. He was on the phone with someone, definitely speaking French.”  
  
“Hm.” Kevin’s turns back to the screen. His thoughts jumble, a messy configuration of mismatched jigsaw pieces. One side of his brain struggles to think through Andrew’s statements (is this a test? a test for what? he won’t leave me, he won’t leave me, don’t leave me) while the other part tries to focus on the screen—the documentary stars Jamie Foxx as narrator; that should be interesting—but it’s a vain attempt at calming himself.

Calming himself because of _what_? Jesus Christ he’s too on edge again.

“He needs help on language and history, but history more so. I don’t know.” Andrew has always been oddly perceptive about things, but Kevin has to silently disagree. Neil is _shit_ at French.

But Andrew leaves that train of thought for something else. He teases the bomb, knowing this may be the very thing still keeping them unbalanced. “Do you like him?”

III.

_There’s something else. Something else bothering you._

“What?” Kevin startles, biting his lip. Andrew gently tugs the skin free with this thumb. He lets the digit rest against Kevin’s lip as he says, “Do you like him? Yes or no?”

Oh, this has to be a test.

But Kevin doesn't even know what answer Andrew’s looking for.

“I mean,” Kevin swallows. _Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, it was just dinner—_

“It’s a simple question, darling.”

The endearment, as usual, isn’t stated with any drop of affection. But this time, it’s not hostile, either. Kevin unconsciously relaxes under the simple tone.

“He’s not the quickest with history,” Kevin starts, “but he’s really smart and easy to talk to—“  
  
“That’s not what I’m asking.” Andrew’s voice sounds way to easy-going for Kevin’s liking. _Trap, trap, like a hunter._ Kevin really just wants to watch the documentary now and ignore everything he should be paying attention to.

“Do. You. Like him,” Andrew states again. His thumb remains on Kevin’s lip, tapping lightly when Kevin goes cross-eyed to look down at it.

“Yes,” Kevin says to the thumb. He’s not sure what the word means though. He looks back up at Andrew, his own brazen Apollo. “I like him.”

A beat. Another ledge to tumble over. Then:

“I-Is that a problem?”

Andrew looks bored, but a twitch of his lip near gives him away. “ _Should_ there be a problem?”

Passive aggressive revelations. But Andrew doesn’t make any move to leave, nor seem so much as inclined to. “I…”

“You find him interesting,” Andrew states simply. He does not add that he feels the same way. Nor does Kevin realize this truth.

“Tell me, Kevin.” Andrew runs the pad of his thumb over Kevin’s bottom lip, teasing at the opening where teeth meet skin. Kevin shivers “Is it more than interest? Is he your temptation?”

Kevin thinks, It’s not a test. It’s an interrogation.

But Andrew is not playing good cop nor bad cop nor any type of damned enforcer. He’s simply—

Asking.

And that confuses Kevin a lot more.

“I don’t understand, Drew,” Kevin says, feeling numb. It’s not a horrible feeling.

“But you do.”

“I haven’t done anything with him—“

“That’s not what I asked,” Andrew tutts, and the roots twist like vines in Kevin’s chest because Andrew almost sounds…amused?

“Do you want to? Do _something_ with him?” Andrew wonders and Kevin waits for the roots to drag him under.

They never do.

“I—“ He can’t lie or he knows that will be Andrew’s last fragile straw with him. But is the truth more deadly? Maybe it is not guilt that is Kevin’s poison, but rather his own existence.

“S-Sometimes,” he settles for with a harsh intake of air.

Andrew hums. Pleased? Unsurprised? Annoyed? Kevin has no idea, but Andrew’s arms stay where they are instead of pulling away so maybe the End hasn’t arrived yet.

What Kevin doesn’t realize is that Andrew doesn’t want—no, Andrew won’t _stand_ —for Kevin holding any misplaced guilt over such a matter. Andrew understands that he has no right to be angry nor jealous over this truth--it is _truth_ , after all, that he asked for. A misuse of emotion on unchangeable matters is a waste of life itself.

Especially considering the skeletons Andrew continues to accumulate in his own closet, he has nothing to hold against Kevin. And Andrew would be a worse liar if he claimed that he didn't find Neil interesting in a catastrophic way. As he watches Kevin’s troubled expression, the reality is becoming more and more obvious of what Kevin has been storing up inside. And Andrew won’t allow Kevin to dwell so negatively on something so—

Inevitable.

His lips millimeters from the skin of Kevin’s ear, Andrew says, “Everyone knows that the only way to get rid of temptation _is to yield to it.”_

Kevin wants to sit up, so naturally his body instinctively tries to burrow closer into Andrew’s chest, enough warning to allow Andrew to stop him if necessary. Andrew doesn’t, though. “A- _what_?”

“I find it useless to repeat myself.”

Kevin doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t talk. He thinks of Neil in the library, purple plum and cherry blood. He thinks of Andrew’s possessive nature— _is this_ _permission_ _, is this a message, what the_ fuck _is Andrew saying?_ He thinks of the fact he doesn’t know half of what Andrew’s got going on in his life (secrets, secrets) and the understanding that he knows next to nothing about Neil’s _entire_ life.

Yet the noose awaits.

It doesn’t matter what Kevin thinks of Neil, though. It’s not like such—what? Feelings? Intentions?—would ever be reciprocated on Neil’s side.

But then Andrew continues unprompted, “He likes you.”

_Why the fuck are you_ telling _me this?_ Unless _—_

(No.)

(But—)  
 _  
_Maybe not all traps are meant to harm, Kevin begins to wonder.

Maybe not all hunters aim to kill.

“Why do you say that?” Kevin asks slowly. He turns the focus back on Andrew, heart rate slowing now that he’s beginning to realize Andrew really isn’t going to run out on him. Not at the moment, at least. “You’ve never talked to him.”  
  
He can’t see Andrew’s expression from this angle. The blonde trails his hand over Kevin’s arm, down towards the mottled scars on the juncture between Kevin’s wrist and palm.

“I have, actually,” Andrew admits. Kevin’s forehead wrinkles in surprise. Neil had never mentioned that. “He’s in one of my classes. And we…run into each other occasionally.”

The vague confession leaves Kevin more confused than not but he accepts what Andrew offers.

“Do _you_ like him?” Kevin asks carefully. Is he allowed to ask that? And why does he— _hope_ for a certain answer?

Andrew and Neil are the opposing ends of the same dynamite stick. Destructive to everything around them, but Kevin would burn for both.

And that realization is worse than Andrew’s next dismissal.

“I don’t like anyone,” Andrew sidesteps. Kevin snorts, despite his own reeling thoughts and suspicious disappointment.

“Liar,” Kevin murmurs. The previous panic and anger he felt when he reached the dorm isn't gone, but muted now, the familiar chaos of their relationship taking over like a drug high. “You like me. And Renee.”

“I tolerate you. Sometimes her.”

“Mhm.” Kevin leans his head back, throat bared as Andrew trails that same hand over Kevin’s collarbone and up behind his ear. He shivers. “Do-Did you mean that, ‘Drew?”

“Yes, I tolerate you. I know it comes as a surprise.”

Kevin huffs. “Who’s the smart-ass now? I meant…”

“Use your words, Day.” Andrew won’t spell it out for him, but he’ll damn well encourage it.

“About Neil. I don’t—“ Kevin sighs, feeling torn. “I like you,” he croaks out, almost pathetically.

Andrew blinks. “You like a lot of people,” he says simply.

“But you’re _you_ ,” Kevin stresses. “I’ve never—It’’s always been you, Andrew. And how are you so calm about this?”

“About what.”

Kevin sits up enough to turn and face Andrew. “You know what I mean. We’re talking about me—and…and Neil, and—“

“And?” Andrew tilts Kevin’s chin down with his thumb and forefinger. “So we are. You don’t have to do anything about—” He shrugs “—anything if you don’t want. It’s just a statement.”

It’s much more than a goddamn statement.

Andrew wonders what it says about himself that he claims to not trust Neil, but trusts Neil enough with Kevin. With--

No. Too early for finalities.

But. Too late for avoidances.

Andrew realizes he’s always been the worst liar of them all. Yet so damn skilled at it.

Kevin’s too tired to put up with any more of the mind puzzles. He sits back against Andrew’s chest again and neither speak, allowing the minutes to tick by. He thinks this conversation isn’t completely over but at the same time, what more is there to say? Andrew really did make it clear after all.

“Can we watch _Exy Rising_?” Kevin asks quietly once his heart rate has settled. He’s not even into the idea of watching it anymore, but something—anything—to fill the silence would be better.

_I can’t handle any more thinking tonight. No more puzzles._

Andrew doesn’t say anything at first, but finally decides to let the matter go as well. He wrinkles his nose at the laptop screen. “You said movie, Day. Not torture."  
  
Kevin forces a laugh as thin as his resolve as he presses play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adorat arcanum literally translates to: He adores the secret/mystery. 
> 
> Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa means Through my fault, through my most grievous (greatest) fault. For historical context, this phrase is used within the Roman Catholic Church when confessing one's general sins during the Mass; it is usually accompanied by striking the beast with one's fist with each repetion--in a way, Andrew's use of the expression is one of pure irony. He is not religious in any form, but he recognizes his "sin", his mistake. Andrew is not one to directly apologize, and within the confines of this world, I believe he uses this expression as the closest way he can come to doing so. Latin is a dead language, so he directs his emotions through it, safe from the Living world.
> 
> Klugscheißer means smart ass.
> 
> Chapter citations:
> 
> Line reference to Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck  
> Reference to Richard Siken's Little Beast, within Crush  
> Line reference to Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray


	8. Alea Iacta Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is made,  
> The die has been cast;  
> Claiming unfolds,  
> —now there's no going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: explicit sexual content

I.

The second the credits roll, Andrew slams the laptop shut. “You’re a sadist, Day.”

Kevin blinks up at Andrew, still distracted. He’s not so oblivious that he doesn’t realize something is still wrong; an hour and twenty minutes of history on the progression of exy rules and regulations, yet he barely absorbed any of the information.

Actually, that's a lie. He didn't pay attention to _anything_ on the screen, and not for lack of trying. But the entire time, Kevin’s thoughts kept returning to Andrew; to Neil; to Andrew and his note _(Yours)_ ; to Neil’s vast glances that could rival the Mariana Trench; to Andrew holding him; to Neil saying, _Do you want to see other people?_ To Andrew’s, _Is he your temptation?_

You can kiss who you want _—_

_It’s not about kissing; it’s about breathing, it’s about living, it’s about your heart and my bones and his scars and our blood._

(I’m tired of thinking; I’m tired that I can’t stop thinking)

_Is he your temptation?_

But am I your’s? And—

 _—_ Is it wrong if the answer is always yes?

Eve was tempted by the Snake and the Snake was tempted by Truth and Truth destroys until there is nothing left standing because this world is built on Deception.

Dove c'è Dio c'è Verità; Dove c'è Verità c'è Violenza.

_The Truth is I can’t lie to you._

Distracted by his current musings and lulled under the calming motion of Andrew still tracing his fingers up and down Kevin’s arm, the latter doesn’t even notice the new expression taking over Andrew’s face.

“Kevin,” Andrew says. He throws off the blanket that had been covering them the past hour and the cool air makes Kevin start.

“Hey,” he whines. “What’s that about sadism?”

Andrew huffs but his eyes are dark. He takes in Kevin’s tense muscles and strained gaze and it doesn’t take anything but common sense to see that whatever was bothering Kevin when he first stalked into the dorm is returning in full force.

(Did it ever really leave?)

But the previous anger has taken another direction.

It’s now internalized.

Andrew cocks his head at Kevin below him and after one final breath, Andrew accepts that his intentions ultimately failed him.

He pushed and he pushed and he pushed Kevin away for too long. He didn't want his job, his mission, to inadvertently harm the other man. He didn’t want the chains of commitment to restrain Kevin’s heart from other happiness.

But his own prevention methods were the crux of Kevin’s pains, his doubts. And Andrew can’t continue on with his own destructive decisions anymore.

He makes a different choice for once.

Hopefully—desperately—this won’t blow up in their faces.

Eyes rake down Kevin’s strained form, limbs coiled with tension as if ready to self-combust. Andrew may be Kevin’s God but Kevin is Andrew’s Temple, the source of his power. And he’s done denying the epicenter of his heart.

Casting one last glance at the clock—Nicky shouldn’t be back for another hour or so—Andrew continues to trail his hand down Kevin. But instead of stopping at the end of Kevin's wrist, his fingers jump to Kevin’s navel, hand teasing the fabric that separates a universe of skin and cotton.

“I won’t let you feel used.” A statement, not a command. A fact, not a farce. “Not anymore. I won’t allow you to let me do so.”

It should never have happened in the first place.

But Andrew is only human—

Which is not an excuse.

But perhaps an explanation.

Kevin shudders in a breath at the combined sensation of Andrew’s touch and his words. _Chains of commitment my ass; s_ ome people lust after the bonds.

Andrew’s hand hasn’t even brushed the skin on Kevin’s stomach but he feels the touch like a wildfire through the threads of his shirt. “—Andrew.”

“Do you understand, Kevin?” _I’ve pushed you away. Too long. I understand if you push me back._

Kevin wants to grab Andrew’s hand; not to halt, but to anchor. He clenches the bed sheets instead. “Yes. _Yes_. I understand, ‘Drew.”

“Do you need me to stop?” Not want. Need. I will shake the gods and storm the universe for that which you need.

“No,” Kevin pleads. A goddamn beggar if there ever was one.

Make me forget for the moment. Make me remember it all.

“Do you want me to stop?” Andrew continues. His fingers play idly with the hem of Kevin’s shirt, goosebumps raised at the slightest tremor.

“No, Andrew,” Kevin croaks out and he thinks he was a doomed man from the second he first met eyes with Andrew Minyard all that time ago. Because despite the heat radiating off Andrew and even _if_ he had the will to say no, Kevin can’t imagine wanting to do anything else but burn. A pleasure, a pleasure, always to burn. _“Yes_ , Andrew, but—”

Andrew stops midway in unbuckling Kevin’s pants and leans back towards Kevin. He touches Kevin’s cheekbone, feather soft. “But?”

“I don’t want—I don’t want you to feel obligated to do this."

Isn’t that the irony?

“Obligated?” Andrew palms Kevin through the fabric of his jeans and Kevin curses softly. “Is that what you think this is?”

Kevin gasps when Andrew slides his hand under Kevin’s waistband. But when he doesn’t answer his question, Andrew doesn’t move to do more.

“‘Drew—“

He starts to sits up, a war of want waging within his mind. His eyes plead with the words he cannot say, and Andrew grants him another fiery kiss. Almost—possessive.

“I asked you a question,” Andrew says into Kevin’s lips. He steals another painfully sweet kiss. “Do you really think—” another kiss, dark and ripe as cherries—“I’m only doing this out of _obligation?_ ” He pulls away and Kevin leans forward again, chasing the connection. “Pray tell, Kevin? Yes?” He brushes his lips to Kevin’s, an evil tease. “Or no?”

 _“Yes, Andrew_ —” the rest of his sentence is lost in a small moan when Andrew’s hand resumes its place, meddlesome fingers invoking that foreign god. “I just don’t want—” Andrew stills—"No, you’re fine, keep—oh shit, keep doing that.”

Andrew smirks against Kevin and runs his hand along Kevin’s length, still trapped painfully within the confines of his jeans. “Don’t worry about me, darling,” Andrew says lowly. “You’re not just my temptation.”

Another ghosting of his hand and Kevin barely manages to breath out a soft ‘ _Andrew_ ’ before throwing his head back against the pillows, so far gone he’s barely absorbing Andrew’s Truths.

Andrew says, “You’re my yes,” and Kevin’s small gasp cried into the sheets is enough in itself to remind Andrew what it’s like to feel whole again.

 _What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying._ And in under two short, inconsolable years, Kevin has become just that to Andrew.

His reason.

His yes.

His—

(I want nothing)

—his his _his_.

And he’s not taking this precious miracle in the form of a relentless survivor—warrior—Kevin Day, for granted again.

Andrew hums knowingly and slides the rest of Kevin’s jeans down. It’s too soon and it’s too much and Kevin has never been good at keeping himself in control long enough around Andrew. But good _God_ he’s trying his best. He grabs the sheets harder as Andrew’s head bobs down and claims his prize, yet another source of worship. Gods adoring gods. A flick of his tongue and a slow stripe down the side of Kevin’s already too hardened length has Kevin near tears.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin had said after his first time with Andrew. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

Andrew had glared at the back of Kevin’s head in response, but that wasn’t where his anger was directed. “Why did you?”

“I don’t know,” Kevin had shrugged, still cradled in Andrew’s arms. The sweat and tears had already dried and while it wasn’t the most comfortable feeling, he had no want to leave Andrew’s embrace. “Sometimes I get emotional when...I guess I didn’t expect to enjoy it that much, is all.”

Even though Kevin was facing away, back to Andrew’s chest, he could practically feel the burn of Andrew’s gaze on him. “Did I hurt you?”

Kevin shivered. The stark care in his words wasn’t found in the tone, but the way Andrew held on to Kevin slightly tighter. Unsure. But definitely— _possessive._

“Not at all,” he said truthfully. “I mean—” he’d shifted, laughing quietly to ease the tension. “I’m sore, but that’s not a problem. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you,” he softly added.

“Sometimes I cry when I’m angry, or I’m sad.” He’d grasped Andrew’s hand over his chest firmly, reveling in the closeness Andrew allowed that night. He didn’t expect Andrew to stay after sex, and later he found that Andrew didn’t always do so, needing his own space to cool down. But that night, Andrew had stayed so, so very close. “But I also cry when I’m happy or surprised. Or when I feel—”

He’d cut off quickly, horrified by the words he’d almost spoken. He’d felt so stupid, nearly admitting his true feelings just because Andrew was the first person to actually care for him during sex. “—or when I feel safe,” he’d finished instead. Which, in hindsight, was exactly what he meant anyway.

“Kevin Day,” Andrew had murmured into the back of Kevin’s neck, lips ghosting over heated skin. “If you apologize for being human one more time, I won’t hesitate to leave.” But he held on tighter to Kevin, actions betraying threats. A creature of contradiction.

“Okay,” Kevin had whispered. The gloss in his eyes was hidden only by the dark and not by design that time. “Okay, Andrew.”

So this time, when a tear slips down Kevin’s cheek, Kevin doesn’t feel shame or embarrassment. He feels good ( _known_ ) and warm ( _claimed_ ) and safe ( _loved_ ). His earlier worries and fears feel so utterly insignificant. Letting himself think, even for a fraction of a second in the grand scheme of history, that Andrew was only using him—going behind Kevin’s back from pleasure to person to pleasure—couldn’t feel less probable within this moment.

What is history to a moment's reprieve? What is prayer to his swollen kiss?

Because _this_ isn’t just about pleasure.

Andrew presses a kiss to the base of Kevin’s cock. So soft, it shouldn’t be possible that a man like him could handle Kevin so tenderly.

 _This_ is a statement.

Andrew takes Kevin entirely into his mouth, but his hands find Kevin’s and press them down into the mattress.

 _This_ is more.

A whimper. “Andrew.”

( _Yours)_

A groan. “Kevin _.”_

_(Mine)_

And by God this—this— _this_ is real.

Everything is quicker than usual but the release has been a long time coming, and not just physically. The tears run freely now, and by the time Andrew has finished wiping Kevin down with a handful of tissues, Kevin’s exhausted. Physically and emotionally drained. But it’s a charming emptiness, knowing that all that is gone has only made room for the new.

“Kevin,” Andrew says. His hands run mindlessly through the other’s hair. “Are you still worried?”

It’s a loaded question. There’s a loaded answer.

“Yes,” Kevin says. “But not about you.”

Andrew waits for Kevin to continue. “I didn’t understand what you meant for the longest time.” Kevin closes his eyes, the feeling of Andrew’s hands near lulling him to sleep. “But now I do.”

“Understand what?” Andrew prompts, expectant. Cautious. Knowing.

“You.”

 _I won’t tolerate people touching what is mine_ , Andrew had said, a million suns blazing behind his eyes. _You can kiss who you want,_ but—

Permission, though never necessary.

Kevin’s cried enough tonight, but the thought is almost enough to bring a grateful shine. “I’m yours,” he continues. “And I shouldn’t have doubted that before.” He leans forward ever so slightly, an infinite expanse of space to cross before Andrew’s lips find his. The kiss is softer than most, but so unbearably unyielding. A small moan slides out when Andrew’s tongue slips inside Kevin’s mouth, running gently along his bottom lip.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” Kevin confesses when they pull apart, faces separated by mere, useless centimeters. “But I understand now. You didn’t need to want me.” Kevin swallows, voice more steady than his shaking heart.

“You didn’t need to want me because you already had me,” he finishes and it’s a good thing there was nothing more to say because Andrew’s lips are on him again and he’s everywhere _oh God_ he’s _everywhere_ on Kevin and it’s so _fucking overwhelming—_

 _“Mine_ ,” Andrew says.

 _“Yours_ ,” Kevin promises.

It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

But for now, it has to be.

II.

When it’s over, Kevin changes into a set of sleep clothes while Andrew goes back to his own room to change. He’s almost asleep by the time Andrew returns and crawls onto the small bed behind him.

“Thank you,” Kevin whispers as Andrew’s arms envelop him, pulling him closer into Andrew’s chest.

“For?”

But Kevin’s already asleep.

III.

The clock reads 12:00. Night. Morning. It’s all the same.

“Can we talk?” His voice is hoarse, shackled within a dream. He thinks he hears knocking, but no one is there. In another world, someone laughs. It sounds like purple bruises, but when he opens the door, it’s worse.

A bird. A monster. A message.

“ _Can we talk?_ ” repeats the Raven.

“But you’re not real,” he says.

“When has that mattered?” asks the Raven.

“Never,” he admits.

“Did you find my note?” says the Raven.

“I think so,” comes the answer. “But it _hurts_.”

His hand his hand his _hand_ oh God why does it burn?

The raven tries to shrug, but it is just a shadow. The shadow moves, now the gnarled form of a poisoned tree. Its branches coil and twist, an endless Noose beckoning to his _anima_. The tree speaks, and it sounds suspiciously like a song.

_“To mourn a mischief that is past and gone—_

_—is the next way to draw new mischief on.”_

“That sounds like bullshit,” he says. But he’s wrong.

The tree laughs but it’s the howl of a raven. This time, the bruise returns. The purple plum boy is there, burns and all. “Why are you in my dream?” Kevin demands.

“I’m not,” Neil says. “ _Nevermore_.”

IV.

Andrew awakes. For an instant he is frozen, disoriented.

Not. His. Room.

But then: Remembrance.

His left arm has fallen asleep where it rests under Kevin but he doesn’t move. Cracking an eye open, he watches the shadow at the door.

Not. His. Room.

“Sorry,” Nicky whispers when he sees Andrew curled around Kevin. He closes the door gently. “Should I go?”

Andrew rolls his eyes but the stuttered relief in his lungs betrays himself. Not that Nicky could see. “This is your room,” Andrew mutters and pulls the blanket over his and Kevin’s shoulders, who is still deep in sleep. Nicky nods and goes to his own bed.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Nicky adds apologetically. The clock reads midnight. “I meant to be back earlier.”

Andrew doesn’t offer a response as he watches his cousin unpack a bag of notebooks and a German language tutoring textbook. Nicky Hemmick, universally denied by all who aren’t worth one shit. Yet ready to help anyone in the near vicinity and beyond. _Fucking savior complex_ , Andrew thinks. But the dark conceals the barely hidden affection in Andrew’s eyes as they follow Nicky’s form collapsing in a tired heap on his own bed.

“Gute Nacht,” Nicky whispers through a yawn, pulling the blankets over his head. “Und süße Träume, cousin.” 

Andrew burrows his face into Kevin’s neck and falls back into sleep.

V.

An hour after midnight, the old gardener walks his way slowly down the perfectly manicured trail. It’s his handiwork, years and years worth of proven experience. His shears are his shield, his saw his armor.

Oremor sings the song of the Noose.

When he reaches the tree, she is already there. His sister, his twin devil, cut from the same bloodied cloth. Waiting for him, impatient as always.

“Good morning,” he says with a smile. He is nowhere near happy.

“Good morning,” the woman returns. But the morning is nowhere near good.

Nathaniel Josten has made his presence more than known at their University. The fox is out in the open.

And it’s time to hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant swarming thanks as always to @mayleaemerald for her translations with the German.
> 
> Alea Iacta Est means the die has been cast. Historical context: statement attributed to Caesar before he crossed the Rubicon, indicating that what will occur is irreversible, a turning point. The original phrase is actually from the Greek ἀνερρίφθω κύβος (anerrhíphthō kúbos), the language Caesar himself used at the time. Shoutout to my old Latin teacher who will (hopefully) never read this but instilled way too much lovely, random knowledge in my head. Gratias tibi ago, Magistra.
> 
> Citations:  
> Line reference to Cub Sport's Confessions  
> Adapted reference to Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451  
> Line reference to Albert Camus' On the Will to Live and the Most Important Question of Existence  
> Reference to Edgar Allen Poe’sThe Raven   
> Line reference to Shakespeare's Othello  
> 


	9. Hunting Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look into Neil's headspace.

I.

Neil wonders how many times he can lie to himself and the men in black before he starts to forget what Truth itself means.

“Name,” the automated voice says.

_“Nathaniel Hatford.”_

“Number,” it demands monotonously.

_“Four-three-three-one-five.”_

“Connecting?”

_“Ichirou fucking Moriyama.”_

The automated voice is silent. Then: “Please repeat.”

Sigh. “Ichirou. Moriyama.” _Fucker_.

The soft buzzing of a tell-tell ringtone fills the space of Neil’s modest apartment. It’s late, hours after he left Kevin and Andrew to their own devices, but mid-morning in the Moriyama’s current headquarters—Essex, UK, aka: the late Stuart Hatford’s estate.

As he waits for the head man to answer, Neil leans back into his couch, mind puzzling together every lie he can get away with and every truth he can hoard for himself. Ichirou can smell out lies like a hound dog, but Neil has leverage this meeting:

Andrew Minyard himself.

“Nathaniel,” Ichirou greets. It’s more of a grimace of a name. “Update us.”

Us. Pluralized. Through the screen, Neil can see that Ichirou is alone in his penthouse, but that’s just from the angle. He has no idea how many other Family members are waiting, listening, just out of sight.

“Good evening, sir,” Neil says, just to be cocky in that polite way. That’s it for pleasantries then—not that Neil is expecting anything else. “I think you will be pleased to hear what I have found.”

Ichirou raises a brow. Somewhere to his right, voices exchange something in quick Japanese that Neil barely picks up on. Definitely not just Ichirou then.

“Get to it then, Hatford,” Ichirou says, almost taunting. “Please us.”

Neil begins. He recounts the classes he’s been taking and the above average grades he’s managed to achieve. Ichirou nods at this, but no doubt has been watching Neil’s transcripts the entire time. Neil assures he’s met with his target, Kevin Day, and there have been no problems so far. Ichirou doesn’t bother hiding a dubious frown at this, but he allows Neil to continue. When Neil arrives to the crest point of his call, Ichirou’s previous concern is forgotten, replaced with his own crooked version of delight.

“Andrew Minyard,” Ichirou repeats, testing the name with his lips. Neil wants to cut those lips off slowly, cruelly. _You don’t deserve to say his name._ “So you’ve finally made contact with OCRA’s rat. What is his status?”

Neil resists an eye roll. “Alive, sir. He’s too valuable an investment to his agency to exterminate just yet.”

“He suspects you, I’m sure,” Ichirou muses. He doesn’t sound too concerned and Neil was betting on that. “It’s never wise to let the suspicious walk for long, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Hatford.”

Neil fakes a small smile despite the back of his neck breaking out in goosebumps.

“I reckon so, sir,” Neil agrees. He folds his hands in his lap and takes a breath. This is his one chance at leverage, his one chance at offering the dog a bone. “But, Sir Ichirou, if I may suggest another possible solution to this—” he smothers a chuckle at the dramatics of it all—“rat infestation.”

Someone, a woman, Neil presumes by the more feminine voice, murmurs something to Ichirou. The language Neil never mastered but had quite the experience with is spoken too low for him to make out any words. He bristles at the Unknowing.

“You may,” Ichirou tells Neil finally. He waves his hand and Neil isn’t sure whether it’s directed at him or the person who just spoke off camera. “But I make no promises.”

“Of course, sir,” Neil says pleasantly. He hides his curled fists under his legs, out of view of the recording screen. “That’s all I ask. My suggestion is that you allow me to not execute Andrew Minyard, but recruit him instead.”

Neil waits for the expected chatter of disapproval from Ichirou’s peanut gallery, but only silence greets him. _Interesting_. Sensing no current uproar, Neil continues: “As I mentioned previously, and as I am sure you are aware, Mr. Minyard is a valuable asset no matter where his loyalties lie. His skills would serve as an incredible advantage to the Family. He’s an E class operative, four years of training under OCRA. Practiced in the arts of Mort de Poignard and Potseluy Angela. Five blue medals awarded for international—“

“That’s enough, Nathaniel,” Ichirou interrupts. “We don’t need you to repeat Minyard’s stats to us, we gave you his files after all.”

Neil flushes under Ichirou’s tone. _Shit, shit, shit._ This doesn’t sound hopeful.

But: “We will discuss your…suggestion,” Ichirou says and it’s all Neil can do not to deflate in relief right there. “For now, focus on your mission. We only demand the _one_ recruit and we expect you to deliver come May. If not, our rat problem will not be the only vermin the Family will have to gas out.

“Do I make myself clear, Nathaniel?”

Neil nods amiably and tents his hands, offering a low bow to the man. Ichirou makes a noise of finality and says, “May, Nathaniel. Remember our agreement,” before ending the call with a flick of his fingers.

Neil releases the breath he’s been holding and sinks back into his couch. The cats he’d locked up in his room scratch at the door but he makes no move to retrieve them just yet, thoughts reeling.

May. Not even four months left. He took so long in just making contact with his target, valuable time wasted in favor of watching from the background first.

_Remember our agreement._

Oh, Neil remembers. There’s not enough bad luck in the world to allow Neil to forget.

But Neil will be damned if he follows through with it.

“Coming,” Neil mutters as he hauls himself to his feet. As if the cats understand a word he says. The insistent scratching continues. “I said I’m coming, you funny looking bastards.”

Neil planned for many things when he arrived at Foxborough.

His mission, for one.

 _Find Kevin Day. Bring him home. It will be a Family reunion_ , Ichirou had said with a sadistic grin.

Neil found Kevin.

But Neil’s not letting the Family get their slimy hands on Day. Not again.

And despite his words, Neil has no intention of delivering Andrew over either. And he’s certainly not wasting breath _killing_ the man.

No. If anything, Neil’s disobedience that the Family will eventually uproot will only cost the Moriyama’s one life in the end.

Neil’s.

II.

“Hungry?” Neil murmurs in sleepy Russian. He places the bowl of canned tuna and watches fondly as his cats lap up the food.

He wonders if Kevin and Andrew like cats.

“Is that good?” He continues softly, rubbing underneath Tolstuhka’s chin. She purrs softly before nudging his hand away to eat more.

An alarm rings to life and Neil sighs. Five in the morning has come too soon, and he’s yet to rest his eyes once. It’s not the first night his thoughts have betrayed him, keeping him awake past all hours. And it won’t be the last.

“ _Bonjour à moi_ ,” Neil mutters to himself. He pats Dasha’s head before standing back up from his crouch where he bent to place their bowls down. Time to start another day. Another lie. Another miracle.

First, he runs:

Two miles down towards Foxborough, where he can see the steeples of the school over Riot Hill. He faces the West Lawns as he runs and as he enters Fox’s gates, using an old beaten trail to lead him further, he passes his second checkpoint: Noose. The old gardener whistles his haunting tune as he trims another branch, a melody Neil has become all too familiar with during his stay. Neil swears he sees the man trim the same space every day, yet the tree looks just as full as when he first arrived to the university.

After he passes Noose and Oremor, Neil turns left and up another trail, until finally exiting Fox from the East gates. He watches the early signs of morning life bustle into activity around him: cars pulling out of driveways, professors pulling into parking lots, other early risers like him going about their mundane business.

He craves their simplicity.

When he’s not studying the world, he’s battling his mind. Thoughts of his mother, bones burning on an abandoned California beach. Uncle Stuart, his savior and enslaver, bleeding out on his atrium floor. _Good riddance._ The Family, Ichirou, his new captors. Andrew and his fire, Kevin and his flame. The girl in Complex Analysis who shares her study notes when he can’t keep himself awake to listen.

He doesn’t just crave simplicity.

He craves security.

Another turn; another street corner. A couple walk by balancing coffee cups in their hands. A street performer plays from a tuneless violin. A dog barks through a shabby fence. The world continues on.

Neil knows he’s being selfish. Just because he’ll be wrapped in body bag come May doesn’t give him any right to seek security, however fake or short-lived. But one taste of the gunpowder that surrounds Andrew’s presence, one touch of the molten-honey man who speaks French like a prayer, and Neil is already doomed.

He doesn’t deserve their touch, their attention, their existence.

As of now, he’s practically supposed to send them to their deaths, after all.

Neil was always supposed to die. The fact he’s made it this long is quite the testament to his stubborn will. Or maybe it’s just luck.

_What is called a good reason for living is also a good reason for dying._

Neil thinks a few months to appreciate the breath he has left isn’t too much to ask. Andrew can hate him. Kevin can tolerate him. It’s not like Neil is expecting anything more. It’d be a nice thought, but Neil is only a fox.

And all foxes must be hunted in the end.

By the time he circles around and reaches the main road he’d taken from his apartment, the sun has fully risen and he’s achieved a fresh layer of sweat from head to toe. It’s still cold as hell but he barely feels the chill through his loose limbs and rushing blood.

Adrenaline rush, that constant drug he can’t kick.

As he steps back up to his apartment, hands flying across the different security systems in place, his thoughts continue to race as fast as his pumping blood.

The problem is that he’s being hunted too early. Andrew is as smart as Neil expected, and even more suspicious. He doesn’t think Andrew has figured out the full story, but since he’s working for OCRA, the blonde will surely have all the pieces sooner rather than later.

Another lock; another key code to enter.

From what Neil’s gathered, there’s more OCRA agents at Fox than he would have assumed. Andrew wasn't a surprise, and it was almost a delight to see Renee Walker, a highly respected former Black Swan. She recognized Neil immediately at Queenie’s—or, at least, she recognized the signs of what she’d been told to look for, but he doubts she’s received confirmation of her suspicions just yet. The good thing is that she doesn’t suspect that _he_ recognized _her_. That may have been a bigger issue, if so.

Another code. Neil feels the last lock unclasp.

As for Minyard and Walker’s handler, they’re also at Fox, but Neil has yet to track them down. Soon, though. Soon. But for now?

He needs to throw Andrew off his scent. Not for deception itself, but to cease everyone’s worries. He’s made a promise to himself that he won’t bring harm to Kevin nor Andrew, and means to keep such with his own blood. 

The best method: throw the dog a bone. Put enough meat that the beast doesn’t suspect what is going on around him. Satisfy the blood-thirst until his other prey seems unsatisfactory. _Alea iacta est._

And maybe…

No. It’s cruel to hope for anything more. Nothing will change Andrew’s suspicion, his hatred of Neil. Kevin has Andrew. They don’t need him.

(But maybe I don’t have to die only knowing loneliness.)

A ridiculous dream. Neil might as well believe in God while he’s at it.

Finally swinging his door open, Neil sighs. Dasha’s tail snaps up in greeting from his perch on the couch backing before looking away again.

Neil says to the ghost of himself, “Until May.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading and for any kudos, comments, screams of pain, in advance!
> 
> I promise there will be lots and lots of kandreil eventually, but we must bravely forge through the slow burns of dumbfuckery first ashjklkjhs (next chapter? *blows kazoo* it begins)
> 
> Mort de Poignard roughly translates to 'Death by Dagger', or 'Dagger Death.'  
> Potseluy Angela is the phonetic English for the Russian Поцелуй ангела, meaning 'Angel's Kiss'  
> These two styles of militaristic fighting are not real (at least, not that I know of lol) and are confined by the laws of this world.


	10. Past, Present, and Purpose; Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the past; a taste of the present. The future bodes just as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> interrupting the beginning notes to give a heaping thank you to everyone who is reading and liking this so far, I appreciate you all so freaking much!! thank you thank you THANK YOU for yall's lovely comments, I read them a million times when I'm stuck in writer's block. I'm posting a day early bc I really love you all and I hope you enjoy this next slew of chapters <333
> 
> this chapter is dedicated to @justwhatialwayswanted who guessed first ;)
> 
> cw: very brief su*cidal thoughts.

I.

Seth said, “It’s a stupid song.”

Before he died, and long before Neil Josten ever stepped foot on Foxborough, Seth Gordon was full of life. Not particularly _good_ life in many respects, but life nonetheless. He had opinions about anything and everything, from the overgrown grass when the trimmers were behind schedule, to the ridiculous show of wealth in every brick and every tile of building on campus.

Last May, Seth decided to voice his opinions on one niche in particular. Kevin and Matt humored him, if only to avoid any mindless protests over it.

“Okay, Seth,” Matt smiled. The three were sprawled on the East lawns—Kevin rushing to finish a translation assignment in his notebook, Matt watching the clouds pass and perverse overhead, and Seth glaring at his Economics textbook as if the pages were solely responsible for his poor life decisions—before they had to head to practice later.

“I’m serious,” Seth insisted. He gestured toward the horizon where the West lawns sat. “Have you ever actually thought the words through?”

Kevin grimaced at his paper. Goddamn Descartes and his Cartesian influence. He just needed _one_ more paragraph. “Sure, Seth.”

Seth rolled his eyes. “Bastards. You’re not _listening_.”

Matt guffawed. “I’m listening. But why are you so pressed? It’s just a song.”

“It’s not just a song,” Seth insisted. He slammed his textbook closed and pointed at Matt. “It’s a _stupid_ song. And I wouldn’t be so ‘pressed’—“ he made finger quotes—“if people would just stop singing it for once.”

Kevin scribbled another line of half assed Descartes as Matt started singing under his breath. “ _Found five, left one/Saw four, can’t run_ —wait, no. What’s the second line?”

“Met none,” Kevin corrected off handedly. The pair ignored Seth’s choked sounds of disgustas Matt continued to hum off tune.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Seth groaned and slapped Matt’s chest. Matt broke off the song and dissolved into a fit of laughter when Seth moved to straddle him, the latter faking anger.

“This is _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” Seth said. He mocked a frown as Matt continued to shake under him. “Why is this whole damn school obsessed with that song? It doesn’t even make sense.”

“Tripped—thrice,” Matt wheezed between laughs, “Eyes g- _gone_.” More laughter, and Kevin chuckled despite his growing impatience with _La Géométrie._

“Can’t run,” Kevin corrected again, but the pair weren’t listening as Seth slapped Matt’s cheek, losing the battle and laughing alongside Matt.

“Ooo, kinky,” Matt choked out and Seth rolled off him, gagging like he was about to throw up. “Does Allison like that too?”

Kevin gave up parsing the second to last sentence to blink horrified at Matt. Seth continued to retch into the grass. “Matt, that’s disgusting,” Kevin admonished seriously. “You know Seth’s the one asking for it.”

A pair of girls jogging by jumped in surprise when the boys, minus Seth, near caused a minor earthquake with the roars of their laughter. Matt fell on his side, cheeks dimpling the blades of grass as tears rolled down his cheek. Seth leaned over and slapped them both upside the head for good measure.

Five minutes and one disgruntled soul later,Kevin managed to string enough sobered coherency together to ask, “Look, G. Does it matter if it makes sense? It’s just a story.”

Seth sighed, stretching out onto his back beside Matt and after a moment, Kevin did the same on Boyd’s other side, the three laying alongside and watching the world twist and turn.

“I know that but—“ Seth snapped his middle finger in thought. “There’s something weird about it. I don’t know. Just, think about the story for a moment. The Fallen Five.” He paused to emphasize his next statement.

“Yeah?” Kevin prompted.

“Except,” Seth's voice dipped softer, “only four fell.”

Saw four, met none.

Matt said after a pause, “Mort Claire.”

“Exactly,” Seth said. “The lone fucking survivor.”

“Mort,” Matt repeated. “Like that guy from Madagascar.”

Kevin and Seth blinked. A stray leaf fell onto Matt’s head.“What?” the first two said in unison.

Matt shrugged and studied the leaf before putting the tip in his mouth. The other two made a face. Matt grimaced around the leaf. “I was hoping it was mint.”

“Oh my god,” Kevin declared.

“Bright death,” Seth said because it was clear they were getting off track again. “That’s what his name means.”

Kevin scoffed. _“I_ know what it means.”

“It’s a bit on the nose too, isn’t it?” Seth continued, ignoring Kevin’s comment.

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s a story,” Matt reasoned. He spit the leaf to the side where it hit Seth’s cheek, causing the man to groan in disgust. “It’s supposed to be dark and mysterious and on the nose.”

“It’s not mysterious—” Seth rubbed his cheek of the chewed leaf and hit Matt’s shoulder in the same stroke “—it’s annoying. Like you."

Matt smiled. “You break my heart, G.”

“So why is it the Fallen Five?” Kevin gave voice Seth’s earlier point, now actually curious. He hummed, lacing his fingers under his head. “Huh. Good question. Since when did you get all analytical on us, Gordon?”

Seth huffed. “I’ve always been, asshole.”

More than that, though. Analytical. Two-faced. Deeper than the fucking Mariana Trench.

No one knew this. No one ever cared enough about Seth to know who he really was, who he belonged to. He ached to walk the stage, to give his heart to a girl bathed in red and gold, but he sold his soul to another Family when his cast him aside.

The Family.

“Sure,” Matt agreed, but he grinned placatingly when Seth glared at him. “No, really. I believe you.”

“Whatever,” Seth said, unconvinced. He shrugged self-consciously, dry grass scraping his windbreaker. “Just forget it. It’s just a stupid song. I don’t give a shit who—I don’t know. Fell or not.”

Except he did. He did give a shit.

But when he fell months later—

(pushed, pushed, _pushed_ , the ghost of a memory insists)

—his broken body so, so close to the epicenter of it all—

(on the nose, on the fucking nose, _they broke my nose before they pushed me_ )

—Seth had no more life left to care.

II.

Kevin thinks about that day as he walks along the path towards Wreck for practice. The trail crosses the East Lawns and he can see the patch of grass where he and his friends had once laid, spines to the dirt and hearts to the sky. He can still hear Matt’s throaty laugh, Seth’s artificial complaints.

Memory and moment unite and Kevin thinks, _He didn’t deserve to die._

Seth had been a bastard—literally. Disowned by a father who helped run the North American black market and who’s mother was M.I.A. since his birth, Seth found other pursuits, other profits, other people to pass his time. He wasn’t always pleasant, but he wasn’t always intolerable, either.

At the root of it all, Seth was just another miserable boy who yearned for more. For better. For belonging. But born broken and died broken, he never found what he so desperately was looking for. A product of his environment.

Allison had said once, during one of her and Seth’s off periods, that Seth was the perfect example of nature versus nurture. His nature? Corrupt, criminal, calloused child. Nurture? A world devoid of proper care. Was it so surprising that he got caught in the webs of the wrong group of people? Could you really blame a war-torn man who knew that peace existed—but a peace he never was allowed to possess?

Kevin continues along the trail. A road well traveled, the ghost of a man ambling alongside him. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he retrieves it. Two notifications greet him: one, a message from Andrew and another from Matt. Andrew says that he’s going to Witherspear to meet with Renee later, an implied _I’ll see you there_. Kevin answers an affirmative and smiles to himself.When he reads the text from Matt, Kevin’s grin grows wider.

> **From Boyd** : guess what
> 
> **From Boyd** : no really. take a guess
> 
> **From Boyd** : mystery boy’s outside the court again

Kevin sends a thumbs up and slides the phone back in his pocket. If he has any say in the matter, maybe Neil won’t stay a mystery for long.

III.

Directly east of Court Square and situated in the midst of said direction’s Lawns sits the Recreation Center—the same building Kevin is now arriving to. Interestingly, students call this building Wreck, which is utterly misleading and borderline offensive to anyone with the ability of sight. Built out of painted sandstone and ivory marble, the center stands as just another reminder of poorly placed funds in a world struggling to stay afloat.

For reference, Wreck is four stories tall and divided into eight main sections. The first floor contains the gymnasium courts: basketball and volleyball on one side, exy and indoor soccer on the other. The second floor consists of circuit training exercise equipment and an indoor track. The third, indoor rock climbing and fencing mats.

The indoor swimming pools are found on the fourth floor.

Strangely, or maybe not all that surprising, is the fact students rarely use the pools. For one, the outdoor pools are bigger and cleaner than the fourth floor’s. Second, Wreck was built before the invention of elevators, and not many people are interested enough to walk all four stories just to swim in a less kept environment. While the building is kept in pristine condition, Wreck was also kept in her _original_ structural condition (electricity and indoor plumbing being exceptions, give or take a few other amenities).

Also, there are no lights on the fourth floor.

An important note about Wreck: She is predominantly characterized by her arched windows, which span ten feet across at their longest point and fifteen feet high at their tallest. The windows are spaced twenty feet apart, and more than enough sunlight reaches in during the day. And while overhead lights were installed in the late thirties, they’re rarely necessary, save for during storms or nighttime.

But no lights were built onto the fourth floor.

This shouldn’t be a problem. Again, the windows make up for any need for light. But the students tell a different story.

Because the students will tell you there are lights.

Everywhere.

On the ceiling, on the walls. Pool lights and floor lamps. Sconces and electrical flames.

These lights don’t exist.

But everyone begs otherwise.

Maybe it’s the drugs they all take. Hallucinogenics will do funny things to one’s mind. Or possibly it’s placebo, a lie repeated so strongly throughout the decades that there is no other choice but to believe it.

Or maybe everyone’s full of bullshit and a generation’s worth of too-rich-kids with too much time on their hands really have nothing better to do than to spread a crazy rumor.

Regardless, nobody really likes the fourth floor.

Except for a few. Exhibits following:

Nevix swims every morning before the sun rises. Doing laps back and forth down the olympic size pool helps retain upper body strength. It’s also quiet due to the otherwise absent floor, and Nevix enjoys the quiet. They hear too much noise during the day; it’s nice to be surrounded by silence for an hour. At least before they must return to work or class or cheer practice.

Hours after Nevix is gone, Nicky Hemmick arrives. Despite appearances, he’s not intimidated by much, and some extra stairs or phantom lights are the least of his worries. He doesn’t come to swim, though. Not really.

Instead, he’s waiting for someone.

The minutes pass while Nicky lazily floats on his back. He does this every day. The sun caresses his idle form but he ignores the rays as he hums a song to himself. By the time he reaches the chorus for a third time, the one he’s waiting for appears.

Erik Klose stands at the threshold of the room, cheeks dimpling at the sight of Hemmick lazing on the water. After one of his fellow cheer mates hinted that the pools were a good place to cool down in solitude, he immediately agreed to check the floor out. However, once Nicky started joining Erik, the cool _downs_ became more like hook _ups_.

But this is more than just hooking up, to be honest.

On the marble archway above where Erik entered is an inscription:

دخول الحمام ليس مثل خروجه

—which should be a warning to most, but no one’s ever cared much for the obvious.

Nicky doesn’t speak as Erik slowly undresses from the far side of the room. It’s quieter than death but the slow ripples of water around Nicky’s skin combined with the motion of their shallow breathing reminds the pair just how very alive they both are.

Erik’s pullover sweater is first to drop. Then, his tank and leggings fall with it. He’s just come from practice, and even meters away, Nicky can see the faint shine of sweat that comes from a hard workout. It’s an appreciative sight, but still Nicky does not speak.

It’s nice to enjoy the silence.

Erik steps under the shower first. He’s yet to break eye contact with the other man and he doesn’t stop now as water droplets and stray sun teases his skin. Nicky shivers in the heated water.

By the time Erik enters the pool, Nicky has subconsciously floated close enough to pull Erik’s body to his immediately. Or maybe Erik pulls first. They still haven’t said a word in exchange, but this is purposeful. A routine.

An every day affair.

The sun watches them, stoic in her might. They touch and they breathe each other in, ignoring the world and all her deadly responsibilities for the moment. They are unaware of everything but the other. They call this: peace.

When their fingers are well pruned from the water and lips too swollen to continue their onslaught, Nicky lays his forehead against Erik’s. It’s time for class soon but neither pull away.

Erik speaks first.

He says, “Hi,” and, “Hello,” and, “I missed you,” and, “Liebling,” as he does every day.

Nicky says, “Hi,” and, “Hello,” and, “I missed you more,” and, “Prince,” as he always responds.

And Nicky says, “How was practice?” And Erik says, “Good,” and Erik says, “How are the kids?” And Nicky says, “Passing,” and they both say, “I love you,” as they hold on to each other as if the world is ending but it’s not; though, it doesn’t matter either way because they are _here_ and they are _together_ and they are _alive_.

Being alive is a killer, if you think about it. But when cradled in the arms of someone who loves you, maybe dying isn’t all that bad.

Neil Josten uses the pools at night. Other than his apartment, it’s the one spot on campus he feels able to breathe. When he’s alone under the water, letting meter after meter swallow him up as he swims further down, the suffocating reminder of his current existence disappears. No mission, no death sentence hangs over his head while the water directs him.

When he resurfaces for air, the weight comes back in full force. So he falls under once more. Stroke after stroke, shaking lungs after shaking lungs.

Sometimes, he’s tempted to take a breath under water. The urge to push and to pull and to sink as low as he possibly can in this underwater haven is more than tempting. It’s near consuming. Just one breath, just one choke of absent air, and he’ll never be enslaved to such a fatal need again.

His head breaks the surface, limbs shaking at the thoughts threatening to drown him first. It’s like this every night. He should be used to this by now.

He’s not.

This is around the time Neil drags himself from the water, heart hollow, and makes the laborious journey back to his apartment.

Alone.

Kevin hasn't used the fourth floor's pools since Seth's passing, but he hasn't had much time in his schedule to make an effort anyway. However, on this current day, as Kevin swings the entrance doors to the court open, a thought occurs to him when he does in fact see Neil outside the court. The latter is sitting on the first row of bleachers just as Matt promised. Neil’s hair is wet as if he’d just taken a shower, normally strawberry curls darkened to a striking shade of cherry from the dampness.

Neil waves to Kevin when they make eye contact from opposing sides of the court. After a moment, Kevin waves back. He’s almost late to practice, but he sacrifices a moment to talk to Neil.

“Hi,” Neil greets. He motions towards the court. “I’m not staying for long. I just, um—“

“Tutoring?” Kevin guesses. He ignores the disappointment in his chest when Neil nods. It’s not like he was expecting any other reason why Neil would want to hang out. Right?

“Yeah, actually.” Neil grins self-consciously. “I have a report due in about a week and I was wondering if, uh, you’d be okay going over the final draft with me.”

Kevin ignores the call of his coach ordering him to get in the locker room. “Of course. Does tomorrow work, though? I have plans with Andrew later."  
  
Neil doesn’t say anything to the last comment but nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. Tomorrow works.”

“Or, actually,” Kevin says, “You could probably meet us. We’ll just be in the library. That might work perfectly—“

Neil’s already shaking his head and Kevin feels that same stab of dismay. “Thanks, but I’m not gonna intrude on you and him.”

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Kevin assures quickly. He holds up a hand for reprieve at his coach yelling again from the other side of the court and one of his teammates laugh. “Really, Andrew’s bringing a friend, it’ll be fine.”

Neil chuckles. “Andrew has friends?”

“Hey, he’s not all that bad,” Kevin defends with a smile. “So? After my practice, do you want…?”

Neil looks down at his feet before finally shaking his head again. “No, um. Let’s just meet tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

Kevin tries to not overthink the expression of regret that’s painting Neil’s face before it’s quickly wiped away. Instead, he changes the subject and gestures to Neil's hair. "Did you go swimming?"

Neil starts to answer an affirmative but stills as Kevin reaches over, fingers lightly smoothing over the cherry locks. A flush creeps up Neil's neck but he doesn't move to stop him. Kevin's fingers trace a stray curl and Neil bites his lip near hard enough to draw blood, repressing a choked noise that would damn him past saving. 

Realizing what he's doing, but unbeknownst to Neil's content, Kevin quickly retracts, startling himself. "Shit. I'm—so sorry. I don't know why..."

"It's fine," Neil says gently. He doesn't make eye contact with Kevin and the latter feels a horrible stab of guilt. After being with Andrew for so long, Kevin thinks he'd be more conscious of not intruding on people's space like that. And yet. 

"I'm really so sorry," he mumbles. "I shouldn't have—"

"Kev." Now it's Neil turn to reach over and place a light hand on Kevin's wrist. Nothing more than the whisper of a touch. He meets Kevin's eyes. "I said it's fine. _Really_. Okay?"

At Neil's shy but encouraging expression, Kevin breathes out a sigh of relief. "Okay."

It's awkward, those next few seconds, but Kevin's coach bellows a war cry and they finally pull apart. After quickly establishing a time to meet the following afternoon, they make their peace and Neil heads out. His heart continues to pump painfully as he drags himself toward Wreck’s exit, forcing step after step before he makes a costly decision and turns back around to _accept_ the offer to hang out with Kevin and Andrew.

He wants to. More than most anything. His chest pains at the loss of what he could’ve said.

He could’ve said _yes_. He could’ve said _sure_. He could’ve said, _I want to know you both enough to lose my life over it._

But he said no. Because it’s not fair to know someone who you can’t be known by in return. And if Kevin and Andrew were to know the extent of who Neil is, who he belongs to, who he’s supposed to _become_ —

Neil can’t bear to think of it. So he turns on his heel and slams the exit doors open, legs moving into gear in that oh so familiar fashion.

He can still feel Kevin's hand in his hair, phantom memories. He can still feel the way his own stomach dropped at the touch, not in displeasure, but in unbridled delight. Kevin is so much bigger than Neil in height, stature; he truly is larger than life—just one touch and Neil felt grounded. Almost, safe. He thinks Andrew's touch would be the same, though more gripping, a man strong enough to intimidate a god. 

It’s longing that fuels his feet forward. Unfiltered, pained _longing_ for a life Neil isn’t fated to have that has Neil barreling down the pavement and running for the closest trash can he can find before he throws up the remains of his lunch everywhere.

He’s almost tempted to run back up to Wreck’s fourth floor and let the pool camouflage his tears.

Neil thinks, _Why me?_

But he knows the answer.

_I am the brunt of my own purpose._

He turns a corner and stumbles, falling slightly before righting himself. The wind sings a stupid song in his ear that he’s heard his whole life.

This is you. This is all you are. This is all you are allowed to have.

_Nothing._

Some people aren’t born to handle this kind of pain.

So he runs.

IV.

Nevix watches the boy sprint across the East Lawns as the OCRA agent runs their hands gently through their partner’s hair where the latter lays highlighting his textbook on the grass.

“What do you think is wrong with him?” Nevix asks, concerning the running boy. After much research and finally giving into Joseph’s demands, Nevix has a feeling they know one of the reasons. But it’s always fun to get an outsider’s perspective.

“Dunno,” Aaron mutters without looking up. He highlights another vocabulary word for his Human Biology class that Nevix can only hope to understand.

“You didn't look," Nexix points out patiently. "You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

Aaron finally lifts his head from the anatomy book and smirks. “Sorry, babe. What’s up?”

Nevix rolls their eyes but runs a steady hand through Aaron’s hair again. “Never mind. He’s gone. Go back to your work.”

Aaron scoffs, amused, but looks back down. “Whatever you say, Kate.”

Nevix smiles, but their gaze doesn’t leave the running boy’s form until he disappears from view.

_Who are you running from this time, little fox?_

_Who are you running to?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we just take a moment to appreciate the fact that fanfic allows us to like ~rewrite~ an entire character's personality?? aka you can rip slightly redeemable fanon Seth and cheerleader Erik Klose from my cold dead hands :DD
> 
> ALSO CREDITS to @justwhatialwayswanted who inspired Erik's cheerleading character
> 
> The phantom lights mentioned just serve as another example of campus folklore as an originally drug-influenced trend passed around Foxborough.
> 
> دخول الحمام ليس مثل خروجه is an Egyptian proverb that translates to 'Entering the bath is not the same as leaving it', meaning people may slip into complicated situations easily, but it is considerably harder getting out of such.
> 
> Citations:  
> Rene Descartes La Géométrie  
> Line Reference to Haruki Murakami, Men Without Women: Stories


	11. Past, Present, and Promise; Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another past; another day. To understand the future, we can't dismiss prior pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: extended theme of drug use and very explicit descriptions of such, including a (forced) overdose and its aftermath. Implications of past su*cidal thoughts/tendencies.

I.

It was August when Andrew shook hands with Death.

It was the second week of the new term and Andrew was tired already.

It was still summer, it was suicide season.

But Andrew didn’t ask to die.

II.

Kevin found him first.

He’d knocked on the door fiercely, worry growing with every second of silence. They’d made arrangements to go watch a show, some live performance hosted in Eden’s Pavilion. But when Andrew didn’t respond to Kevin’s first text, his third, his fourth, his fifth _call_ —Kevin started to grow concerned.

It took an embarrassing moment to realize the door was unlocked. When Kevin discovered this, pushing the hinges open and mouth ready to chew Andrew out for ghosting, it was almost too late.

Andrew didn’t have a pulse for four point nine seconds.

By the time the paramedics arrived, a stretcher was almost needed for Kevin as well. He couldn’t stop shaking and he thought he might have been crying but he wasn’t very aware of anything save for his fallen angel unresponsive on the dorm floor.

“I never told him,” Kevin had choked out to no one in particular as one of the EMT’s strapped Andrew’s body onto the pallet. Another medic was trying to get Kevin to leave the room but he wouldn’t budge, only going where Andrew went.

He felt like a cliche, a comedy and a tragedy all rolled into one ironic punchline when he sobbed, “ _I never told him I love him.”_

The tears became a flood.

III.

Cocaine overdose.

That was the medical report that came back.

That was the lie, the very convincing-when-it shouldn’t-have-been lie that near tore Kevin’s heart from his chest cavity.

Because he believed it.

Andrew remembers this. He has no choice in the matter. He remembers the doctor’s words and wondering, _Who bought you off? How much did they give you to lie to me, to lie to yourselves?_

Worse, he remembers the betrayal in Kevin’s eyes— _Why would you do this to yourself, Why would you do this to me, Why do you hurt everything you touch?_ —the disbelief from Kevin’s lips— _Your eyes, your eyes, they were black, you were dead, Andrew, we almost lost you,_ I _almost lost you_ —the distrust ingrained in every action and every word since.

Andrew also remembers that, for possibly the one time in his life, he was actually innocent.

To some degree, he was at fault. Only partly. As stated before, Andrew had been tired. So, exhaustibly tired. Tired enough to not check and double check and triple check the contents of his water bottle when he arrived back at his shared dorm.

They poisoned his fucking _water_ , of all things.

Cracker dust—that’s what it’s called. Pellets smaller than grains of rice and so very dissolvable. When mixed with any liquid, the drug is tasteless, practically invisible, only discovered with a test strip of litmus paper. Just two grams of dust is enough to render a person immobile, a temporary paralysis for a few hours. But any more and the drug is deadly. Lethal as all hell.

Andrew swallowed the equivalent of three grams.

He should’ve died. There’s no debate on the matter. The moment he felt the nerves in his arms tightening, his throat constricting, his muscles hardening, he knew he’d made a mistake. And he knew this was one where he might not be able to resurrect.

When he awoke, surprising himself the most, in that hospital bed where Kevin paced in tears outside (there wasn’t enough money in Day’s inheritance to bribe the doctors to allow him inside the room, apparently), Andrew’s first thought was, _Hell looks boring._

His second thought was, _I’m really fucking thirsty._

And then it hit him. The room, the water, the last breath he took as he felt his muscles shutting down.

Andrew said with a sore throat more dry than the Atacama, “I need a raise.”

The doctors came in after that. They told him the usual, _You’re so lucky to be alive, We need to run these tests, We’ll have you back on your feet in days,_ etc. Andrew’s notoriety as a Foxborough investment, combined with OCRA’s interference on his behalf (to this day, Andrew never learned all the details of just _what_ exactly OCRA did to convince the authorities to look the other way), left Andrew leaving the hospital with no more than a slap on the wrist and a mandatory therapy schedule to keep up appearances. Other than that, there was no hospital bill, no jail time, nada.

Andrew still demanded that raise the next time he contacted Nevix.

Aaron and Nicky were another matter. Andrew refused to tell them the extent of his job, especially considering he was under contract to stay silent about it, which only left his brother and cousin more distressed about the overdose. Nicky was beside himself for weeks, desperate to understand a matter he had no ability to. Aaron was different; for the next few months, every time he looked at Andrew, he wore an expression similar to guilt. It was no secret Aaron experimented with his own slew of drugs in his teen years, but now seeing his own brother come so close to death because of it (albeit not Andrew’s fault, but Aaron had no idea), Aaron questioned if his previous habits influenced Andrew’s near death.

It was a clusterfuck of emotion after the whole ordeal. That’s the only way to describe it.

But Andrew made a promise a long time ago to his family, and as the saying always goes, the less they know, the better.

Renee knew the truth of the matter, of course. She and Nevix, whoever the fuck Nevix was, were the only people on campus who ever knew the truth. And they, along with Betsy Dobson, the OCRA senior agent acting as interim therapist at Foxborough for Andrew’s sake, were also the only people to ever know the new habit Andrew picked up following the aftermath of his ‘overdose’:

Forced Immunity.

He started with a tenth of a gram. Downed with thirty two ounces of distilled water and a full stomach of rye bread to absorb the effects as much as possible, Andrew only suffered a slight fever and hyperactive attitude for a few hours.

Then he threw up anything and everything he ate in the past two days.

It was a slow process, building a natural resistance to the dust—but now more than ever it was necessary. Andrew admitted to himself he should’ve done so years before when he was first warned of the drug, infamously used by mercenaries and international operatives just as trained as he, if not more so. But like many important things in his life, he waited too long, and near lost everything in exchange.

After he mastered the tenth of a gram with no repercussions, he practiced with a more concentrated amount. He received the dust from Dobson after a thorough lecture on _carefulness_ this and _responsibility_ that.

For all that Andrew cared, it was his responsibility to keep his family safe. And dying from something as stupid as poisoning just wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t enjoy the constant headaches the dust brought about, or the manic personality torn from his psyche when he pushed his limits with the doses. Cracker dust affects the mind’s responses first, then moves to physically shutting down the muscles and organs when overdosed. Andrew is careful enough to always stay on the side of the fence dealing with the _mind_ , not desiring a repeat of the hospital experience. On the downside, that means sacrificing his mental barriers for hours at a time.

The effects can last as long as an hour to two days depending on the dosage, but the important point is that Andrew’s making progress. If Dobson has done her research correctly, Andrew is one of twelve known recorded people in the world with the ability to digest two grams of Cracker dust and not suffer any signs of paralysis (the record held by a now deceased Filipino agent who'd mastered five point two grams--eventually dying from prolonged exposure to the Dust. Go figure). It’s quite the accomplishment, but Andrew’s nowhere near done.

But it’s working. Now, six months later, Andrew is capable of ingesting a gram and a half’s worth of dust with no problem; two grams with a headache and showing slightly neurotic symptoms; two point two grams with a fever and unhinged mental state.

He’s currently working on reaching two and a half, but he has to be careful so not to send Kevin in a spiral again. In lower doses, the dust brings out a red hue to one’s eyes, similar to a bloodshot appearance; in higher doses, the pupils dilate until the entire iris is black—the same eyes that stared back unseeingly at Kevin when he came upon Andrew’s body in the dorm—and Kevin has long known to look for the tell tale sign of Andrew’s ‘habits’ in the eyes.

Windows to the soul, and all that bullshit.

Kevin has no knowledge of the real cause for Andrew’s bloodshot appearance and unbalanced smile that comes and goes arbitrarily. Andrew has no desire to even begin explaining the truth of it all because that would entail confessing everything—OCRA, Andrew’s contract, Andrew’s _mission_ —and he’s not certain Kevin will ever forgive Andrew for such a secret.

“The ends justify the means,” Renee had said, but she frowned when she did so. She despised the truth even more so than Andrew. 

A promise is a promise. Fuck whatever obstacles stand in Andrew's way.

IV.

“Machiavelli can fuck himself,” Andrew mutters to himself as he weighs his current dosage on the scale. Two point three grams. He could push for as much after already handling two point two, but even the barest of increments more at this stage and Andrew’s flirting with the very likelihood of overdoing it too quickly. Besides, Aaron and he are supposed to meet later and Andrew knows he won’t have enough time to come down from the brunt of so much dust.

No. Better to be safe today. Two grams it is.

He doesn't realize his mistake. Not until it's too late.

He empties what he thinks is the decided dosage into his water bottle and over the course of an hour and finishing one last assignment, Andrew self-administers the drug. He hasn’t yet reached the point where two grams is easy, and he can feel his temperature rising already.

At one point, Andrew sets down his pen and turns to the side. There's a silver toned mirror Aaron had mounted on the wall months before, a gift from his partner. Andrew studies his reflection in the glass before a sudden, impossible laugh is near torn out of him. His hair is tussled, blazer askew, lips chapped like he’s walked through a blizzard. He looks horrendous and it’s possibly the funniest thing he’s seen all day.

 _It’s not funny, though,_ Andrew has the fast dwindling awareness to think _._

_Oh, but it is._

The digital clock on his dresser beeps the hour. It sounds like an out of tune recorder. He turns his body toward the noise but it sounds like it's coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He laughs again.

_Beep-beep like a horn._

_Horn goes beep and the man falls down—_

Stop laughing.

_We all fall down—_

_London bridge is falling down—_

Andrew weighed two grams, right? He struggles to remember. The beginning is always the worst but this feels worse than worst. But he’s handled more before. He can handle this too.

Right? _Right?_

But it’s so goddamn painful.

_Pain pain P-A-I-N pain of glass no pane of glass like the glass in Kevin’s skin—_

_That wasn’t glass that was a knife no that was my knife—_

How much did I fucking take?

_— was that my knife? I didn’t mean to hurt him does he know that? Does he know that I hurt him—_

_You hurt him you hurt everyone you hurt now you’re hurting_ it’s hurting _—_

What the fuck does hurt even mean.

The clock beeps again and Andrew tries to stand but rolls off his desk chair instead. The paper he was working on falls to the floor with him, sheet crinkling under his hand. His head hits the side of his bed but he doesn’t move to get up. The thoughts are in control now, just like they always are when he’s taken dust.

 _You deserve to hurt you deserve to feel I just want to feel something I just want to feel_ —

Two grams, right? Maybe there was more. Two point one? Two point one grams. Two point one. Two-one. Twenty-one.

“I’m twenty-one,” Andrew chokes out. He doesn’t know what that means either.

_You’re an adult you’re in charge adults are always in charge they do a shit job of it you’re doing a shit job at it._

“At what?” Andrew demands of himself.

_At living at breathing at protecting at promising at holding at holding on come on Andrew it’s just two point one you have to hold on._

“Hold on.” Andrew twists his head to the side, skin scraping the wood of the bed post. “Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Like a mantra, like a prayer, like a plea.

_No not a plea don’t you beg we don’t beg you used to beg on this bed—_

_Not that bed another bed there were so many beds—_

_Beds beg beg beds same word—_

Two point three. Andrew took two point three grams. Maybe. He has no idea. He doesn’t remember making the decision to take so much but it’s the only explanation. He’s handled more than two grams before and it wasn’t this bad, so why…

“I’m gonna die,” Andrew groans but it comes out like a laugh because death is funny and people laugh at funny things. He tries to find purchase, hands scraping at the side of the bed, but instead he sinks all the way to the floor. He rests his forehead against the carpet and laughs again. Isn’t this funny? Kevin’s going to find Andrew in the same position like last time. He’ll be so sad, they were getting on so well recently. They’d studied in the library the day before and went to dinner. It was nice. Andrew likes dinner. Andrew likes Kevin. Dinner and Kevin? Fantastic.

Kevin had even dressed up for the occasion. He’d put on the nicest blazer he owned, a gold tie that Andrew’d bought him months prior and did wonders for Kevin's dark complexion.

“You look ridiculous,” Andrew had commented when Kevin had finished changing. Kevin had smiled at Andrew like Andrew had wrote him a sonnet.

“Thanks. You look good, too.”

Andrew scowled. Then he proceeded to jump on Kevin and tear off every fine layer of Kevin's clothing because _really,_ someone that attractive shouldn’t feel forced to hide themselves like that.

They had to reschedule their reservations. That was fine.

“Oh, Kevin,” Andrew curses but it comes out like a whine. He hates the sound and he wishes he could take it back. But he can’t let Kevin find him like this. Not again. Another broken laugh is ripped out of him at the pained thought of Kevin doing so.

“Don’t…want—” Andrew coughs until he feels like he’ll never breathe again. But if he’s coughing that means his muscles are still working which means he’s not going to die. Not yet, at least.

“Don’t want them to see me. Like this,” Andrew whispers to his absent god. 

Them. Kevin. Aaron. Nicky. Renee.

Neil. Neil saw Andrew like this. No, not exactly like this. In the hallway, that first night. In the balcony, Neil saw Andrew. Neil always saw Andrew like he was looking through glass.

 _He saw me he saw me he’s going to find me he’s going to_ ruin _me—_

_He’s going to help me he’s going to know me oh god—_

_I don’t want to be known I don’t want I don’t want I don’t want—_

He thinks he sees Neil now, watching him with those glacier eyes. Staring, Andrew wants to say. Why are you staring?

_I should shoot you I should stab you I don’t trust you you shouldn’t be here you can’t stay here you can stay the fox can stay—_

Andrew’s hallucinated before when he’s taken too high a dose. He curses the deity that decided to give Andrew a vision of Neil of all people.

The hallucination bends down and touches Andrew’s brow, the ridge between eye and bone.

“Side effects,” Andrew spits to the vision. “You’re just a fucking side effect.”

The vision frowns but Andrew doesn’t care. His eyes stay open but the world shakes and he can longer see.

Even the darkness hurts.

V.

Once again, Andrew is surprised to find he’s still breathing. When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted by the afternoon sunlight pouring in from the partially opened window. He doesn’t remember opening it.

“Fuck.” He’s freezing but his head is pounding and he doesn’t need a thermometer to know he has a fever. He takes another minute or two or five to compose himself before dragging himself to a standing position. He has to pause midway and it takes another minute to quell the rising nausea, but once he's certain he's not going to throw up, he turns his head to look at the clock.

Just past one in the afternoon.

He’s been out for three hours.

Andrew can’t remember passing out but memory loss with the dust isn’t new. He casts a look to the still locked door and concludes he’s in the clear. No one—not Aaron, not Kevin—has seen him.

Thank fuck for small miracles.

But something is definitely wrong. Andrew tries to think but thinking is so _hard_ when his whole body begs to return to the land of unconsciousness. 

_Why—?_

More nausea, but Andrew's remembering.

When Andrew took his last dosage, more than two grams for sure, he didn't pass out. He didn't suffer such raging side effects as whatever he did today. Which means...

Andrew stumbles to his dressers drawer, flipping open a hidden nob and swallowing bile at the same time. Sure enough, the secret compartment is empty.

"Shit, shit, _shit_." The last bag Dobson gave him was two and a half grams. He thought he measured the proper dosage right, though. He wasn't supposed to push for so much. Not yet.

As if on cue, Andrew turns and barely makes it to the bathroom before he's throwing up all the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. Yep. He definitely didn't measure his dosage right. Fuck's sake.

"This is your fault," Andrew mutters to himself. He leans his head against the porcelain rim and groans. "All your fucking fault."

It's yet another mistake of his in the long running list of Andrew's fuck ups. The last time he was poisoned, it was because Andrew got lazy. He didn't test his drink before swallowing, a precaution instilled into him since his goddamn balls had dropped, damn it. 

And now, he's getting lazy again. Couldn't even measure his own dosage without screwing it up. If Dobson had put even one more gram into that bag and Andrew took it all...

Andrew shudders. He left his self-destructive habits behind him, for the most part, when he joined OCRA. 

_If you can't save yourself,_ Nevix had once told him over the phone, _make the choice to save someone else._

So he did. He made a promise, sold his soul, signed the contract, didn't get the t-shirt. Andrew had taken care of the Tilda threat years before—his religious freak of a mother who believed instilling the fear of God with fire to flesh was a good way of raising a child. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. Turns out, Tilda's own flesh was just as flammable, and Andrew quite enjoyed the agnostic tendencies of his and Aaron's new children's home after she burned. That is, until Nicky came along. But Hemmick didn't care much for the fire, having been subjected enough by his own father, and the twins tolerated Nicky's homemade style of religion.

The three men still bear their burns and scars of their past: Andrew on his chest and arms, Aaron on his neck and shoulders, Nicky on his hands and heart. But if Andrew has any say in the matter—which he damn well does, his deal with OCRA is proof enough—Nicky and Aaron will never be subjected to the hellscape that is _Gottkult_ ever again.

After what feels like hours but is probably just minutes, Andrew pulls himself to his feet. He flushes the toilet and leans against the sink, taking another breath to steady himself. Somehow, he finds the impossible energy to wash his face before downing some Tylenol for the headache. The sight of his reflection isn’t pretty, but at least it’s not _funny_ either.

God, he needs to take a break from the crackers.

Ten minutes, some concealer to make himself barely presentable, and a partially eaten energy bar later (he couldn't stomach the rest), Andrew changes and manages to find his phone thrown haphazardly in the corner of the room. He needs to get in touch with Dobson about what happened because whatever it is, it's not good and Andrew _really_ doesn't feel like killing himself over a miscalculation. That'd be quite annoying, after all.

He checks the device and sure enough, Aaron is asking where he is. Andrew doesn’t bother with a reply as he stalks out of the room with his bag and gloves, coat bundled across his shoulders and head still pounding like a timed grenade. He glares at anyone and everything he passes in the halls and takes _some_ satisfaction that his reputation still precedes him. Enough to make any wandering gaze look quickly away at he stomps by, at least. His eyes burn in the cold as he steps outside, but that’s probably yet another lingering side effect. Aaron sends another text and Andrew sighs.

It’s just another damn day.

VI.

Neil watches the blonde disaster leave the dorm room from the window he hadn’t had time to close. He’s lucky that Aaron and Andrew’s dorm is on the first floor, or he’d never have seen the spectacle that just occurred.

It was unbelievably painful to watch. When Andrew first fell from his desk, then sprawled on the floor, murmuring nonsensically to the air, Neil near had a stroke trying to decide what to do. Call Kevin? Call an ambulance? Get some ice?

But all his instincts told Neil to wait. There was something methodical about the way Andrew was reacting to whatever he had taken. Neil guessed it was probably some type of drug, but the way Andrew handled it looked the exact opposite of recreational.

“Immunity,” Neil murmured to himself when Andrew sank to the floor. That was the only thing Neil could think of that made sense. A government agent wasn’t just going to down drugs like it was candy; no, this was purposeful.

The question was: Why? Who was Andrew building an immunity from? As far as Neil knew, the Moriyama’s didn’t operate through the use of drugs and banes. The Family was more of a bullet-to-the-head, knife-to-the-throat, cremate and repeat kind of crowd. You know, hands on.

When it looked like Andrew was too far gone to make sense of his own hands, Neil unlocked the window (credit card and a small spring, oldest trick in the book) and cracked it open enough to slip through. He walked over to where Andrew lay, careful enough to not disturb any piles of clothes or strewn textbooks on the floor.

“Oh dear,” Neil said aloud. He crouched down and took in the sight of the vulnerable man. It was strange, Neil thought. Andrew was completely defenseless in this state.Why he would leave himself in such a compromising state for any means was beyond Neil.

“You don’t look too good,” Neil commented. Andrew’s gaze was pointed somewhere over Neil’s shoulder and Neil had no idea if Andrew was even aware of _him_.

“Do you do this a lot?” Neil asked unnecessarily. Andrew was in no state of responding, though he tried. Some garbled words came out but Neil couldn't make sense of them. Gently, Neil reached over and touched Andrew’s brow, checking for any tremor’s in the muscle cortex that would signal nerves breaking down. Uncle Stuart had taught Neil _some_ useful tips, after all.

When Andrew’s breath finally evened out, Neil concluded the blonde was completely out. It was slightly unnerving since Andrew’s eyes were still open, so Neil carefully drew the eyelids shut.

“Better,” Neil said. He shifted so that he was sitting on the floor against the side of the bed and gently picked up Andrew’s head to reposition on Neil’s lap. “That’s softer, eh?”

Every five minutes Neil would check for a pulse. A thumb to Andrew’s wrist, an index to the side of Andrew’s windpipe. It was steady. Faster than a pulse normally should be, but steady.

If you asked Neil why he sat with Andrew, and why he stayed near three hours until Andrew began to wake up, before hightailing it out of the dorm’s window, Neil really wouldn’t have an answer. Maybe it was because Neil felt guilty for spying on Andrew before—desire to admire what he could never have outweighing his current precautions— only to find the blonde in the throes of some drug induced torment. Maybe it was because Neil felt responsible for Andrew’s stress, knowing damn well his presence at Foxborough was enough to send any trained OCRA agent into a fit. Maybe it was because Neil still snuck into Kevin’s theater classes as often as possible, only to find himself watching two souls instead of one—Kevin on the stage, Andrew in the back row—and old habits die hard.

Or maybe it was because Neil knew what it was like to lay alone every night, wishing for someone to hold his hand before he succumbed to another round of darkness.

Whatever the case, Neil tries not to think too much about his actions as he turns from the building and makes his way to Court Square. He promised to meet Kevin in around an hour for tutoring and as long as Andrew doesn’t remember Neil in his room, everything is fine.

Until, sooner than later, it’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play another game: who do we think poisoned Andrew in August? [answers to come]
> 
> Gottkult is a fictional religious group that exists solely within this world. Formed from the German for God and cult, Gottkult is a perversion both linguistically and actually. They are very much a cult in this world, with the influence similar to Scientology and the man power/cruelty of any powerful hate group you can imagine. More info will be given in increments throughout the story, as the Minyards and Hemmick's family were powerful members within said group.
> 
> Cracker Dust mentioned is an adapted take on Nora Sakavics portrayal of the fake drug. As obviously seen, TITWTWE's version of the Dust is much more lethal. 
> 
> Citations:  
> Adapted reference to Richard Siken's Little Beast (Crush)  
> "The ends justify the means," from Niccolò Machiavelli's The Prince


	12. I've Given You All and Now I'm Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much truth can you give away before you're inevitably left with nothing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: same themes of implied drug use, mild discussion of a pedophile, explicit mentions of canon compliant violence

I.

Time, oblivious to the world’s demands, resumes. Life continues. February approaches. Holding a breath before the plunge. _Entr’acte._

“When did politics become so important?” the blonde asks with a devil’s grin. He’s far from happy but his own audacity makes up for it.

“Politics has always been important,” the frustrated reflection mutters. A tired argument, constantly resurfacing. “To sane people, at least.”

“Fine. When did _sane_ people decide to invent such a dastardly waste of time and energy?”

“Andrew—”

“Aaron!” Andrew declares. Like he’s just discovered his twin’s existence for the first time. 

“Are they always like this?” Neil whispers to Kevin, who nods without looking up from the lines he’s been memorizing.

“When he’s using? Yes. When he’s not? Flip a coin.”

When Kevin had first suggested he and Neil meet in Court Square for tutoring, he hadn’t planned on running into the danger duo themselves. If it were just Andrew or Aaron at one time, there would be no problem. In fact, Kevin would have loved to find Andrew and try to see if he and Neil could get along without one ending up on the floor. But the universe and what have you is a cruel one. Such, there the twins were, sitting at one of the many tables littered along the outside gardens of Court Square.

Arguing. As usual.

Kevin nearly turned around the moment he realized Andrew was high—or, thought he was, at least, unaware of the earlier events of both Andrew and Neil’s day. Only the memory of last night’s evening (dinner was nice, but Andrew’s company was better) and years of self-instilled control gave him the patience to sit down across from the blonde and stay calm.

Andrew, for his part, didn’t react much when Kevin and Neil sat down across from them. His gaze lingered longer on Neil than usual with an expression not dissimilar to suspicion, but it was quickly closed off and Kevin couldn’t decipher it.

Neil looked away from Andrew’s face as if he were guilty of something, but what, Kevin couldn’t guess. Neil, however, was about to burst with nervous energy. This was exactly what he’d hoped for and feared all at the same time: a moment with Kevin and Andrew, never mind the fact Aaron is here. Neil knows Andrew is constantly watching him, and though he feels confident Andrew doesn’t remember his presence in the dorm earlier, it’s still a struggle to breathe comfortably.

Because there’s a storm brewing on more fronts than one, and Neil has a sinking feeling Andrew is tired of not getting enough answers out of him. He waits, impatiently for the onslaught, already considering how much truth he can bear to get away with and knowing just how thin the ice he treads on is.

But after twenty minutes of listening to the twins bicker, Kevin is finding prolonged peace studying his lines for _Antigone_. He doesn’t have as many as he would have liked, but he’ll be damned if he can’t keep up with the work he has. He feels Neil watching him out of the corner of his eye and flushes.

“In America especially,” Andrew is currently musing, “people waste more time pretending to care about their issues without doing shit about them. And in Britain. Damned English.”

So it begins.

_Ahdeen_.

Neil raises a brow and looks up from the printed copy of his report that Kevin had made notes on. Andrew has now decided to grab his attention on purpose. It’s not a hard feat, even with prior events.

Despite their initial introduction, Neil can’t deny that Andrew is one of the most interesting people he’s ever encountered. _Just like you expected._ On top of Neil’s current worries, that Andrew knows more about Neil than he lets on, or is going to drag out the truth even if its the last thing he does…

Well, needless to say, Andrew has Neil’s undivided attention.

“What do you have against the English?” Neil asks, feigning obliviousness. It’s a poor act.

Andrew squints at Neil and wrinkles his nose. Is it the after effects of the dust, or are Neil’s eyes prettier than usual in the mid afternoon light? Ugh. “Did I not just make explicitly clear what I have against the goddamn English? And America?”

He waves his hands vaguely. “See, I’m not discriminating. I’m calling out both tyrannies.”

“America’s a _democracy_ , Andrew,” Aaron groans. “Not a goddamn tyranny.”

Kevin isn’t sure what’s inspired this topic, but he has a feeling it has to do with something of which he’s not in the loop.

“Alright, then.” Andrew claps once before abruptly standing from the chair he’s perched on, metal scraping against stone garden tiles. The wind snaps at the long peacoat he wears, a grey god blending into the surrounding winter landscape.

Maybe it’s the drugs still in Andrew’s system. Maybe it’s an important point Andrew needs to make but isn’t sure what that point is yet. Whatever the case, if Neil wants a show, Neil’s going to get a goddamn show.

“America!” Andrew exclaims, loud enough to startle a pair of blue jays in a nearby oak. A group of girls down the hill startle in their direction but are ignored. “America,” Andrew continues, “‘I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing,’” he quotes. His eyes flutter from sky to brother to fountain to Neil. He steps forward again, thighs jarring the table and disrupting the various study objects laid out.

He leans his arms against the metal of the table and focuses directly on Neil. To Neil’s credit, he doesn’t flinch or waver under Andrew’s gaze, but juts his chin up at Andrew in earnest. Kevin is part impressed with Neil. The other part is growing annoyed again, shamefully curious to watch one of Andrew’s drug-induced spurts of energy play out in front of his new friend.

“‘I can’t stand my own mind’,” Andrew continues. A truth for a truth. Neil counts, _doovah_. Aaron rolls his eyes but is paying just as much attention as the rest.

“America! When will we end the human war? Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.”

But this was never about America. This is more. This is worse.

Kevin listens, resigned but enraptured at the scene unfolding before him. _I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing_. The words are startling, familiar.

“I don’t feel good—don’t,” Andrew pauses, diminuendo—“bother me.” The dreams of a dead poet entwine with his own reality and he gasps, still nauseous from the cracker dust lingering in his bloodstream.

He turns and jumps onto his chair, arms spread wide and glorious. His gloved hands embrace the horizon. “ _America_!” He screams into the air, an ant cursing god.“Why are your libraries full of tears? I’m _sick_ of your insane demands.” He’s jumping from line to line, from thought to thought, from conviction to damned conviction. He’s barely coherent but that’s the point: recognition in the chaos.

He let the cracker dust have a run at his mind earlier; now it’s taken over his words, his gospel of Damnation. But he speaks nothing, save for the truth.

“America.” It’s Neil this time, soft, so softly. His face is tilted up at Andrew on his perch, who stares down at Neil intently—too intently, like a hawk watching her prey; a hunter scoping his fox. Aaron scowls at Neil’s addition; Kevin tilts his head, invested. He shoves _Antigone_ to the side.

Neil continues, “My mind is made up, there’s going to be trouble.”

His own share of the truth; his own slice of the poisoned pie. Andrew realizes this. Aaron rolls his eyes.

“You should have seen me reading Marx,” Andrew returns. His voice has dropped to the same volume as Neil’s. Haunting. Pianissimo. This time, possibly due to the addition of Neil, is much different than Andrew’s previous manic performances. Kevin has no idea what’s going on but it’s great. Terrible and haunting and overwhelming, but great. 

Andrew says, “My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.”

On the contrary, Betsy Dobson would probably disagree. Go figure.

“Has it occurred to you that you’re America?” Neil whispers. He could shout it and it would be just as loud.

“Perhaps,” Andrew breaks, stepping down from his metal podium. “Or perhaps I am talking to myself again.”

A pause. A bluebird cries. The storm hasn’t yet passed.

It’s just begun.

II.

Neil is smiling at Andrew, knowing and so, so painful. Andrew is blank-face, considering. Aaron is glaring at everyone.

“What. The fuck. Was that?” Kevin asks with a nervous laugh. “That was cool.”

Neil looks expectantly at Andrew, but Andrew only stares back silently. Assessing?

Self-conscious, Neil shrugs. “Ginsberg,” is his only response. “Allen Ginsberg.”

“Oh.” Kevin nods. “He’s the guy who cracked the enigma code, right?”

“No, you insufferable bastard,” Aaron groans. “That’s Turing. Alan _Turing,_ a goddamn hero _._ Ginsberg was a fucking _pedophile_ ,” he levels the last comment at Andrew, who waves dismissively.

“Point still stands.”

“What on earth was your point?” Aaron guffaws. “That you can’t survive a week without drowning yourself in another substance—“

“Finish that sentence, Aaron,” Andrew grins. “What a wonderful hypocrite you make.”

“Or that your favorite authors are problematic pieces of shit?” Aaron continues.

“Oh, brother mine.” The blonde yawns. He wraps the ends of his coat tighter around himself, a cheap trick to hide the slight trembling in his arms. “When will you realize that sometimes ugly men say pretty words? How disappointing you are. It’s a wonder that Kathleen of your’s puts up with you—“

“Their name is Katelyn, jackass.”

“—I never said Ginsberg was my favorite,” Andrew ignores Aaron’s correction. “I didn’t even say he was good. He’s a disaster, in all honesty.” He smirks, wolffish. “I’m flattered that you care so much about the sake of my morality, though.”

Aaron looks between his pen and Andrew’s chest as if contemplating the lethal potentiality of the ballpoint. “We’re supposed to be focusing on _Euripides_ , not your tragic excuse for a moral compass.”

“Tragic heroes, tragic me, close enough.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not—”

“If they don’t get along, why do they spend time together?” Neil asks Kevin. He doesn’t even have to lower his voice at this point as the twin’s quarreling rises in volume. His heart is beating near out of his chest from what— _ever_ —just happened and focusing on Kevin helps Neil find some semblance of balance.

He gave a truth away and he’s certain Andrew will press for more. Toujours une tempête.

Could he give more away? He knows he can. But what will it cost him? Can he bear to lose Kevin’s patience, Kevin’s respect, when Kevin finds out who Neil’s father is? Who Neil _works_ for?

“Simple,” Kevin answers, oblivious to Neil’s worries. “A shared source of hatred breeds ample room for conversation.”

“What do they hate, exactly?” Neil wonders, though his mind is half a world away. He wants to tell Kevin more than he can risk to. Maybe a complete and justified rejection now will be less painful when Neil has to leave this plane of existence for good.

Throw the dog all your bones so that there’s nothing left to lose.

“Each other.” Kevin answers, gesturing to the pair as if to say _duh_. Aaron looks mutinous and gives in, throwing his pen at Andrew’s face, who catches it reflexively. He would have made a great goalie in another life, Kevin thinks sadly.

Andrew turns around and hurls the pen into a nearby bush.

“Oh, damn you,” Aaron swears.

“Damn yourself.”

“How did you know all that?” Kevin asks Neil. “The Ginsberg, poetry, whatever.”

A brief grimace crosses Neil’s face but disappears just as quickly. “My mom used to own some poetry collections,” he relents. “ _America_ was the first thing I read with curse words in it.”

Kevin chuckles at the bashful blush painting Neil’s cheeks. “That memorable, huh?”

“I guess,” Neil says, huffing a slight laugh. “I didn’t know about the pedophilia thing though. That sucks.”

“Understatement,” Kevin returns.

“Hey, you didn’t even know who he was.”

“Seems to be a blessing,” Kevin snickers.

“I liked Poe more, anyway,” Neil says suddenly. He can still remember the sweet smell of the cherry half he’d dropped on his mother’s copy of _Lenore,_ the brittle pages of _The_ _Raven_. “Quoth the Raven, and all that.”

A whisper of alarm tugs at the edges of Kevin’s mind. “What?”

Across from them, Aaron is unsuccessfully trying to grab back his copy of _Hippolytus_ , which Andrew is holding above his head just out of reach.

“I like Poe,” Neil restates. He lifts a shoulder self-consciously. “I know that’s not too original, but I—“

“No.” Kevin swallows and tries to get his bearings. The wind chill seems harsher then it should be. “After that. What did you say?”

Neil’s forehead creases as he thinks. “Um, ‘Quoth the Raven’..?”

“Nevermore,” Kevin whispers. The remnants of dream tug at his lips but he can’t make the connection. Was it a dream? The memory of a bird—no, a monster—no, a boy—rattle at his mind’s door. 

Neil, also oblivious to Kevin’s rapture, leans closer. He hooks a finger at the twins who are seconds away from a full out brawl in the grass. “Not to say this isn’t entertaining, but why did we have to sit with them again?” Maybe he has time to persuade Kevin to have them leave before Andrew can get another demand in—a demand which Neil may not be prepared to decline. He shivers ever so slightly in the cold. Truly, the desirous part of him, the _self-destructive_ part of him, doesn’t want to get away from Andrew. But his ever so stubborn survival instincts combined with the earlier events of the day keep nagging at Neil’s psyche, familiar guilt. “We’re not getting much work done.”

It’s almost funny, how secluded Kevin and Neil are on their own little islands of worry. Neil stuck in his own head and past, Kevin torn between dream and reality.

Despite all this, Kevin doesn’t miss that Andrew’s attention has clearly shifted to Neil and Kevin’s close proximity. “Well,” Kevin starts shakily. He clears his throat and forces his nerves to settle. “I was hoping you could meet the twins… on a better basis, but it’s possible that that plan has thoroughly fell through.”

Neil smirks. “It’s only Andrew who set the bar low. I have nothing else to compare Aaron with, so so far so good.”

“Good?” Albeit weakly, Kevin laughs, drawing both twin’s full attention. The last traces of a quickly deteriorating dream sink into the ground for good. “You are officially the first person on earth to describe them that way.”

“Something funny?” Aaron scowls at Neil. He’s been in a mood all day, but that has more to do with the fact his partner turned down a study date and left him alone with Andrew, than Neil. Not that Neil can tell the difference. Hopefully, Neil will one day forgive Kevin for sitting them at the cursed table.

“Oh, not at all,” Neil deadpans. “Just enjoying the show.”

“Hope so,” Aaron mutters. He twists his torso and kicks Andrew in the shin under the table, who promptly curses and throws the book in the same direction as the pen earlier.

“I’m going to murder you,” Aaron promises and stands up to retrieve _Hippolytus._

“Doth Cain’s fury grow?” Andrew returns. As Aaron stalks off to potentially wage war with the bushes, Andrew levels his attention to study Neil and Kevin, who return the favor.

“He sounds serious,” Neil comments, teeth flashing. “Maybe you shouldn’t provoke him so much.”

“Don’t try, he won’t listen.” Kevin shrugs at Andrew’s glare, opting to talk and get his mind off the _wrongness_ he feels. “Andrew seems to have a death wish when it comes to Aaron. It‘s almost funny.” He levels a cheeky smirk at the blonde.

Andrew crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. “Death is funny to you, darling?” As (almost) always, the endearment is a sarcastic addition; though that doesn’t stop Kevin’s heart from stuttering. At this rate, Kevin’s going to collapse from cardiac arrest before his next birthday.

“Frightening, actually,” Kevin corrects.

“Oh,” Andrew tuts. “Don’t be so afraid to die. It’s only another reality. You’ll adapt just as as well.” He focuses on Neil, gaze as sharp as the barrel of the rifle Mary Hatford used to carry on her person. The sinking feeling returns in full force and Neil knows the hunter has him in his sights. “Are you afraid to die, _kleiner Fuchs?”_

III.

Neil blinks at the German moniker. “I’m not—” he clears his throat and Kevin blinks at the expression in Neil’s eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Seen enough of the world, is that it?” Andrew presses. Forget scoping out his target, he’s more than ready to tease the trigger. “Ready for the next journey?”

Neil shifts in his seat, pulling on the hem of his scarf. Careful, careful. He has to be careful with his words. It’s never been his greatest strength. “I wouldn’t say that either.”

“No?” Andrew steeples his fingers. Assessing. “What _would_ you say, then?”

“Andrew, stop,” Kevin says. He doesn’t know the extent of the cruel dance that the pair are spinning around each other, but he senses Neil’s discomfort and that’s enough for Kevin to want to put an end to it.

“It’s fine,” Neil assures at the same time Andrew barrels on: “What’s the matter? I’m just trying to learn more about our new friend. I don’t believe we met under the best of terms.”

“You could say that again,” Neil mutters. But he doesn’t miss the way Andrew says ‘our’. Though it’s meant to be sarcastic, he can’t help but revel in the potential life he’ll never have.

Kevin rolls his eyes at the conversation. “And whose fault was that, Andrew?”

As it turns out, that wasn’t the right thing to say.

Neil realizes the mistake Kevin’s obliviously made after it’s too late.

Because:

“Hey.” Andrew puts his arms up in mock surrender. The after effects always loosen his muscles more than usual. “I wasn’t the one waking up the entire hall, yelling about some butcher—”

Such an innocent, honest to god mistake. It’s a shame. Kevin will never realize how his words set off Andrew, and in turn, how Andrew set off Neil.

Neil really shouldn’t be blamed for what happens next; this storm isn’t simply man-made.

But this next act is planned.

“Stop,” Neil cuts Andrew off. He’s building this script within his mind, wall after wall pulling up to invoke as much damage control as possible while it occurs.

But Andrew raises a bored brow. He’s always rather enjoyed the spontaneity of his own improvisations. He continues, “When we first met. You were in my hall, on the phone. You mentioned butcher—”

Plan B, then. Desperation. Confuse the hell out of his audience.

Neil pushes his chair back, the balls of his feet straining against the ground. His face has gone pale—not too hard to fake considering his circumstances—as his fingers clench around the arms of the metal chair. For Kevin, an outsider of the scene before him, it’s like watching some highly dramatic impromptu performance and Kevin blinks in confusion.

“I said stop _,_ ” Neil grits through clenched teeth. His eyes dart from Kevin and then back to Andrew. It’s the look of a trapped animal—no—a cornered _predator_ , preparing to fight. He definitely doesn’t have to fake that part. Besides, the most persuasive deceptions contain the heaviest concentrations of truth. “We’re not doing this here.”

Andrew hums. The drugs haven’t completely left his system but the effects are waning, only to be replaced with more frustration. He just wants some damn answers, is that really too much to ask? Goddamn Kevin and his cursed toys, always having to press all of Andrew’s buttons in just the right, sadistic way.

“Funny,” Andrew states. “What do you mean by ‘this’? You’re not the only student who can speak in tongues, little fox.” Neil doesn’t seem fazed by the sobriquet this time and Andrew continues. “What act are you performing now?”

Oh.

Shit.

How does the world come so close to toppling in the blink of an eye?

Answer: you forget someone else is also watching.

Neil would be less damned if he were dropped on his head into the eighth circle of hell. There’ll be no resurrection for him, will there?

Neil looks at Andrew’s victorious smirk, the barest upturn of knowing lips.

He could’ve worshipped those lips if given a chance.

He still would if he were allowed.

But he no longer knows what role he plays in the script Andrew has now laid in front of him.

IV.

_Act?_ Not for the first time, Kevin feels like he’s missing a significant portion of the conversation. He swallows, now really second guessing his decision to bring Neil within shooting distance of Andrew. Not that Kevin’s ever seen Andrew with a gun, but his eyes wield daggers even Macbeth wouldn’t dare to touch.

“Tell me a story if you’re so desperate to perform for me,” Andrew continues lowly. A director of a doomed production. “Who is this—“

Andrew finishes with a word Kevin has never heard. _Me-sneak? Mis-nick?_ It sounds like he’s spoken in another language, but Neil’s reaction distracts Kevin from wondering about the word for too long.

“No one,” Neil claims, fervent in his sin. He wants more time; a month, a week, a breath longer. He doesn’t want to seek repentance yet. He knows there will be no absolution. “It’s _nothing_ —“

Kevin’s mother was once a well-traveled woman. Before the inevitable crash that stopped her heart and broke her skull, Kayleigh Day spent months on the road, on planes, on boats, traveling the world and spreading her knowledge to anyone who would listen. Kevin had been her biggest fan, always begging for another story, another song, another fact that would expand his vision of the world his mother so adored.

“Read it again,” Kevin would plead, green eyes as wide as the plains of Oklahoma. At eight years old he was a sprightly boy, thin and tall and pure curiosity packed in his yet unbroken bones. “Mama, please. Again, again!”

“Okay, _mon trésor_ ,” Kayleigh had laughed. She smoothed her son’s hair down, settling him into bed for one more read through of Yevtushenko. Kevin couldn’t understand the strange shapes of the writing in the book his mother read from, nor could he understand the words she recited until she repeated the lines in French or English. But he loved the deep reverb her voice adopted when she spoke, the lilts and reflections of each foreign syllable.

“ _Telling lies to the young is wrong,_ ” Kayleigh read, but the words were uttered in the Russian form Kevin so enjoyed. Her eyes smiled in mirth at the sight of Kevin’s unmasked fascination with the sound of the foreign words. She continued reading the lines. “ _The young know what you mean. The young are people: Tell them the difficulties are incalculable.”_

And that’s the irony, isn’t it? Young little Kevin, mesmerized simply by the sound of his mother’s voice speaking in that strange language, who couldn’t understand a word she said—the words that he desperately needed to have known.

“Again, _maman_!” Kevin clapped when she finished a second time.

“But it’s time for bed.” Kayleigh pulled his blankets up tighter, settling him in.

“M’not tired,” he insisted. But he yawned, an unfortunate tell.

Kayleigh leaned forward and bopped Kevin on his nose. “Liar, liar,” she said, full of affection. But what he heard was _Lzhets, Lzhets_.

“Illsheds,” Kevin had tried repeating, tongue fumbling through the word. “Illsheds.”

“Almost, my prince.” Kayleigh bent and placed a soft kiss to Kevin’s right cheek, and then his left. “But don’t become one.”

“Illsheds, illsheds,” Kevin whispered to the air long after Kayleigh retired to her own room. Fumbling and tripping on the word again and again, but he didn’t stop.

Kevin has forgotten the details of that night. If you asked him who Yevtushenko was, he’d blink at you, confused. “No idea,” he would say, and that would not be a lie. He has forgotten the poem, and worse, even the sound of his mother’s voice as she quoted those foreign hills and deep crevices that made up the Russian stanzas.

But he did not forget that word..

Which is why when Andrew says, “Liar. That’s what you are, aren’t you, little fox? A liar?” in haunting Russian, Kevin picks up on the epithet, if not the rest of the sentence.

Neil’s cheeks are beautifully flushed, taken aback by the very quick turn in events. It’s not just the Russian Andrew spoke that surprises Neil—after all, the files the Moriyama’s made Neil study on Andrew’s background helpfully included all languages Neil could expect Andrew to be fluent in.

But he truly didn’t expect Andrew to skin him for truths so quickly, so certainly, so damning. Not to mention, they were out in the open: the middle of the (thankfully, currently empty) Court Square where anyone could potentially hide and eavesdrop.

Was it the prior drugs that prompted Andrew to act so suddenly, Neil wonders, or is Andrew really that confident in his abilities to attack at a moment’s notice?

Kevin watches this all, suspicious and confused, but disconnected from the meaning of the situation. The only reservation Andrew has at this point is that this spectacle will inevitably force Andrew to confess something, if anything, to Kevin. He doesn’t want to, but he’s not leaving Kevin completely out of the loop, not with what Kevin is witnessing. 

Damn drugs. They truly do fuck with his mind, whether or not forcing immunity is helpful in the long run. Neil’s world isn’t the only one on the brink of collapse, it seems.

Neil, meanwhile, looks like he wants to stand up, to dart down the hill and never return. He stays seated. His bare hands are now balled in his lap. They’re chapped and red, old scars dry and stark from the cold. Kevin restrains the urge to take Neil’s fingers in his, wanting to warm them, shield them. It’s difficult, though.

“You don’t know who I am,” Neil lies in English, a last plea for Andrew to let it go for now. They can do this later, Andrew can crucify and boil him alive later. Andrew’s almost tempted to do so, and it’s almost funny, because Neil thinks Andrew’s doing this to Neil out of malice.

It’s not malice, though. It’s interest, it’s curiosity, it’s a near desperate need for understanding because Andrew has good instincts and every one of them are insisting that Neil isn’t the true threat here.

Neil thinks he is, but he’s not.

And Andrew doesn’t know how to assure Neil of this without laying all his cards down on the table.

“Then who are you?” Andrew demands, his own last attempt tp reach Neil. His voice is so quiet that the winter chill almost drowns him out.

Neil swallows. “No one. No one worth knowing.”

Andrew’s face splits open in a perverted imitation of joy, but something not dissimilar to disappointment burns in his chest. “That, little fox, is the first true thing you’ve said today.”

When comes the point where we consume our lies, rather than let our lies consume us?

That’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life.

A shiver runs down Kevin’s spine like he’s heard Andrew’s words before. Maybe he has, maybe he hasn’t. _Déjà vu—_ but distorted, looking through the lens of a stranger.

Neil grimaces. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your fox.” _No need to remind me of what I can’t have; existence is reminder enough._

“True again,” Andrew mocks a clap. “What’s that, a new record?” He stills, sobering. “You sure as hell aren’t mine.” Reminders are never fun, are they?

For Kevin, it feels wrong to hear these words fly out Andrew and Neil’s mouths. Everything about the situation feels _wrong_ to Kevin but he doesn’t know why. It’s like he’s on stage, reciting his lines but everyone around him is off book, improvising. But their interpretation is wrong, they’re so wrong, and the scene is spiraling and no one is aware except him.

“Is anyone?” Neil shoots back, unable to stop himself now that it’s begun. “Is anyone truly your’s or do you push that possibility away too?”

Kevin’s heart skips. He takes in Neil—the soft ridges of his cheeks, the dunes of his lips, the ice in his eyes—but Neil doesn’t notice, gaze focused on Andrew.

Andrew slides his thumb across his lip, wiping away his smile.

He’s ready for intermission.

“Where did that brother of mine go?”

V.

The non sequitur makes the pair start. Aaron is, in fact, gone, book and pen rescued from the abused bush. With the chaos of the present, it’s reasonable that no one truly noticed Aaron’s long absence.

“He took my book,” Andrew notes, ignoring Kevin’s overwhelmed expression with the previous scene and Neil’s dumbfounded gape.

The change in the conversation’s direction rattles Day. “That was his book, though,” he states dumbly.

“No, actually,” Andrew murmurs more to himself. “I bought it.”

If he leaves now, Andrew considers, he can handle Kevin’s inevitable interrogation later. He can resume _Neil’s_ interrogation at another time. But currently, Neil’s last sentence has irked him more than Andrew cares to admit.

And now, starting to wane off the brunt of the cracker dust’s haze, Andrew is sobering up to realize he should never have started this conversation so out in the open. Whoever poisoned him months ago—whether it be the Moriyama’s or...he doesn’t even have the energy to consider what other forces may be at play—has surely not disappeared for good, especially not with Neil’s presence on campus.

Goddamn, how many lives does Andrew have? He surely used up all nine by now. Fucking drugs. Fucking secrets. Fucking mistakes. The damned trifecta.

He stands and wipes his hands across his trousers, leathered gloves rubbing against fabric. Architect of the conversation, he’s decided he’s had enough. Abrupt and unapologetic, he gathers himself to leave. He did admit his preference for personal spontaneity, did he not?

“I need that book,” he mutters, another curse under his breath.

Collecting his satchel and swinging the still unopened bag across one shoulder, he says to Neil, “You might be interesting, _Fuchs_ , I’ll grant you that. But it won’t last. And next time? Learn to act before you intrude on my stage. That was a poor excuse for a performance.”

Neil pales more, if that’s even possible, but doesn’t offer a response as Andrew saunters over to the still sitting pair. He cards a hand through Kevin’s hair and bends down to place a kiss on Kevin’s cheeks, first his right and then his left. _Lzhets. Lzhets_. Oh, how we all lie. As painstakingly as always, Kevin leans into Andrew’s touch despite the confusion from the exchange (performance?) and hurt he feels from the drug use.

Andrew is a storm and Kevin his aftermath. He can no more run from Andrew’s will than Andrew can resist his own nature.

The blonde levels one last glance at Kevin and then Neil, before turning and stalking up the hill to Hades knows where. There’s silence, as there always is after a storm has passed. The quiet of the awe-struck, the terror-filled, the survivors.

Kevin says, “What the fuck was that?”

Neil doesn’t have a response.

He’s wondering the same exact thing.

VI.

“Performance—?” Kevin starts, the only thread of the conversation he feels he can even pick up.

An odd look flashes across Neil’s face but instead of answering he says flatly, “I should go."

“No. Neil…” Kevin trails off. He isn’t sure how far to push, how soon to leave it. “What did he mean? Acting? And was that _Russian?”_

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Neil says weakly. “I’m…please don’t make me.”

“Okay, but.” Kevin isn’t sure what to say. “What is going on with you and Andrew? Je ne comprends pas ce qui se passe. Just, help me understand. I’m—“

“Don’t,” Neil cuts in. “Don’t apologize. Especially not for him. It’s not… It’s never your fault and not really his, either.” Neil chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Not at all, actually.”

Kevin wants to ask so much, but remembering all of Neil’s reactions, especially to this _butcher_ has him hesitating. He can’t possibly mean _The_ Butcher, the Russian crime lord and Moriyama Enemy Number 1? Not that Kevin knows much more about the deceased criminal, but you can’t possibly get away without hearing about The Butcher at some point in your life. Unless you live under a rock. A big, fat, soundproof rock.

He waits a tense few seconds before asking hesitantly, “Neil, why did you transfer to Foxborough?”

Another look crosses Neil’s face and this one is of pain. What he doesn’t say is what he means:

_I want to tell you._

_I want to be able to tell you everything without you writing me off as another beast._

_I want to pour my soul out to you so that at least someone can say they knew me before I’m dragged six feet into the dirt._

“I’m not sure I can tell you that,” he states instead with numb lips.

Kevin wants to kiss those lips, to bring back feeling and heat and life into them. He doesn’t.

“Foxborough…” Kevin sighs. “Not anyone gets to come here. And I’m not talking academically, as I’m sure you can tell.” He shrugs. “I guess what I’m saying is, what you’re going through, whatever put you here, whatever’s bothering you—because obviously something is, don’t deny it—I’ll listen. I know you’re not here because you want to be.”

Neil blinks and looks away toward a trimmed bush shaped to resemble an archer aiming an arrow at the sky. Longfellow’s idyllic creation. He’s gambled enough with his life, what’s one more roll of the dice?

“The problem is I want to tell you,” Neil confesses softly, almost as if he has to strain to get the words out. “I can’t tell you everything but what I can say is just as bad. You’ll hate me for it regardless.”

“ _Connerie_ ,” Kevin says, the expletive near torn from his mouth. Is this what everything’s about? “Bullshit. Absolute bullshit.” Neil can’t be serious. “Neil, I know you—better than you think,” Kevin adds at Neil’s pained grimace, “And there’s no way you seriously believe anything you say is enough to make me hate you. You know that, right?”

Neil thinks of yesterday at Wreck, when Kevin had suddenly leaned over and brushed through Neil’s hair with steady fingers. It was one of the most gentle touches he’d ever been blessed with. And he knows Kevin would never—not even jokingly—lift a violent hand his way.

But Neil also knows that Kevin is not stupid, and is definitely smart enough to not risk his time nor life with the absolute devastation that is Neil’s past.

“It doesn’t matter, though, does it?” Neil laughs. It’s a desperately hollow sound. “I’m a liar after all. So who’s to believe me?”

“Me.” The admission is immediate, easy.

“You shouldn’t,” Neil says. So stubborn. So like Andrew, two sides of the same damned coin.

“Andrew thinks I’m gullible.” Kevin taps a finger against his notebook. There’s a doodle of an exy racquet in the corner that Neil had drawn a couple sessions ago. He circles it with his index finger. “And maybe I am. But maybe that’s better than being hard-hearted.”

“Neil,” Kevin says. “My past isn’t bloodless. My story isn’t innocent. I will never hold your demons against you.”

Neil takes this in silently. It’s obvious in his face that he’s warring with himself, craving to surrender but stopping a breath before. Neil has no intention whatsoever of speaking a word about his current dilemmas yet, but…he does have a past. And he aches to be known.

If word ever reached Ichirou that Neil so much as hinted at anything, though…

“Do you trust me?” Kevin asks gently, genuinely curious. But also hopeful.

Neil nearly sobs in his chair. “ _Yes_.”

An admission of his own, immediate. Doubtless. They both seem just as surprised by the answer.

“Then tell me your story,” Kevin says. It’s less of a demand than an encouragement. “Give me your truth.”

“I want you to have it,” Neil whispers. His hands tremble in his lap and without thinking, Kevin leans forward and clasps them in his own. Neil gasps at the touch, but visibly relaxes too.

“Then let me,” Kevin says. “Let me know you.”

And that alone is enough to break down the last barrier Neil built and rewrite the entire script. A tear marks its familiar journey down Neil’s cheek before he realizes he’s tearing up to begin with.

“My mother was a strong woman,” Neil starts shakily. It seems the only acceptable place. He began his life from Mary Hatford’s womb; why not introduce the beginning of the end with her as well? Every next word damns him, but he can’t stop now. “Her name was Mary. Like the _Ave_. Though she wasn’t nearly as pure, thank God,” Neil manages a chuckle, though it pains his chest.

Kevin nods, patient but internally begging Neil to continue, to trust him, to open up.

“My father, on the other hand…” Neil studies a crack in the tiled pavement. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him.

“He hurt people,” Neil continues slowly. He won’t meet Kevin’s eyes. “For a long time, he hurt—he hurt me. And ma- _ma_.” This admission is not as immediate, harder.

“ _Myaznik_.” That word again, the one Andrew spit out earlier. “Or Palach. That’s what they called him. The Butcher. The Slaughterer.”

The Butcher. Kevin wishes he were dreaming so that what he is hearing weren’t true. But instead of disgust or fear Neil expects to see in Kevin’s face, he only finds a very specific shade of sadness. The selfless kind, the type that seems to cry, _I’m sorry about the blood in your mouth; I wish it were mine._

Neil continues. “I got away from him, though. My mom and I, we—we got away. You heard what happened to him a few years ago, I assume.”

As he speaks, slowly, ever so slowly, the voice in Kevin’s head asking Neil to continue begins to beg otherwise. Again, not out of hate, _never_ out of hate, but out of that unquenchable sorrow for what Neil went through. With each new tidbit of information, Kevin’s hands around Neil’s clench ever so slightly, an involuntary response to what he’s hearing.

_No_ , he thinks when Neil tells him how he got the burns on his face, the marks on his arm. _No, please_ , he thinks when Neil pulls down his sweater’s collar to reveal the print of an iron near his shoulder, the sliver of skin torn away from a stray bullet. _Oh God, no—no—no_ when Neil relays what happened to Mary, how he burned the body of his mother on the shores of an abandoned beach in California. He tells Kevin how his uncle’s men found him on that beach and flew him out to his estate in Essex for Neil to recover. _That explains the accent._ Neil talks and he talks and he talks and worse, Kevin can tell it’s the tip of the iceberg, watered down horror compared to the full tale.

Neil doesn’t speak of the day Kengo and Ichirou’s men stormed the Manor, blazing down everyone on the estate but Neil. He doesn’t speak of the fact he sold his soul to the Family, one tortured existence left for another. He doesn’t tell Kevin why he’s really at Fox, that he was sent to bring Kevin back to the Moriyama’s. Neil doesn’t say anything about his new mission, but he tells Kevin his past.

When Neil stumbles in his train of thought, circling back to the part where he gathered Mary’s bones, dousing them in lighter fluid and extra engine oil before he set fire to the remains, his voice cracks so sharply and Kevin can take it no longer. He stands from his chair, his own muscles groaning from the sudden movement, and pulls Neil out of his seat and into his own arms.

Neil shakes at the relief of Kevin’s touch, Kevin’s acceptance, long suppressed emotions now unspooled before them both. Kevin’s accepts this too.

Being known is a terrifying feeling. And oh, so glorious.

Neil thinks, _He doesn’t hate me._

_Oh God, he doesn’t hate me._

_I don’t want this to end._

They stand like that in Court Square, pens and books forgotten, the cold chill a distant memory as Kevin cradles Neil against him. _I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you._ A litany of emotion laced into those three words.

He doesn’t know how long they stand together. Neil’s face pressed into the folds of Kevin’s jacket and hand’s scrunched into Kevin’s sides, like he’s stranded at sea and holding onto the ropes for dear life. When Neil finally pulls away, eyes red but dry and hands still frozen on Kevin, the urge to kiss Neil is even stronger—not just romantically, though there’s a traitorous stir of that somewhere, but platonically. To reassure, not to demand. To comfort, not to condemn.

Kevin settles for touching the tips of Neil’s cheekbones lightly. First his right, then his left, fingers careful around the damaged skin. Neil’s eyes flutter at the gentle touch and he leans in, craving more.

Years, monumental seconds pass. “Thank you for trusting me,” Kevin says quietly. As if the wind will steal away his words and hold them hostage.

Neil swallows and nods to himself once before pulling away completely. The loss of touch, of warmth, is near painful, but they suffer through. 

“Thank you,” Neil returns. What he really means is _thank you for everything_. For listening to Neil, for not throwing him out once the truth was laid bare, for the touch of safety and for Kevin’s own trust.

“Do you want to go?” Kevin asks gently. “I know we didn’t finish your report, but I’d understand if you’d rather go and rest for now.”

The suggestion is more than tempting, but frustratingly enough, the stress of the long day’s events only inspire Neil to suck it up and keep going. Of the very few things Neil is in control of, his grades are the simplest yet most important. He can’t risk _anything_ when it comes to them, not with Ichirou watching every assignment and score handed to Neil.

“No, it’s fine,” Neil says. He gestures awkwardly to the strewn pens and notebooks on the table. “There’s only a couple pages to get through, if that’s alright with you.”

What else is there to say? The statement breaks the quiet and the tension surrounding them and Kevin finds himself bobbing his head in agreement, though he doesn’t. Agree, that is, that everything’s fine. He wants to ask more— _Tell me about your uncle, did he hurt you too? Are your father’s men still a threat? How can such an angel be related to such a beast? Do you regret telling me this, or do you want to say more?—_ but he doesn’t, choosing gratitude that Neil told him as much already. The afternoon sun has tamed and the evening is creeping in, allowing them a short breath of time to finish their studies or resort to a table in the library. So they sit and rearrange the books and pens, settling in to their proper, yet horribly false, roles.

VII.

Meters away at the top of the hill stands the grey god, ashen tendrils curling from the ground where his barely smoked cigarette lays forgotten. He watches the pair as they shuffle from book to notebook to book, hands kept to themselves and eyes trained obediently away from the other.

The grey god huffs a breath, as amused as a stoic can be.

He wishes they would put the pens down, that they would cease their incessant _français_ mutterings.

He wishes they would hold each other again.

The last of the smoke collapses under the weight of the grey god’s boot as he stalks away, thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooow this was a heck of a chapter, huh? Quite a hefty citation list too. Now that we’re finally making some progress with the boys and getting some answers, how the actually hell is Neil going to doozy his way out of the Moriyama’s death grip? And who the actual fuck is also working behind the scenes? Hmmm,, answers to come! Thank you as always for reading, and I hope to see yall next Sunday if work doesn’t interfere with my schedule!
> 
> Chapter title and verses Andrew quotes are from Allen Ginsberg's America (disclaimer: the poem is in line with the emotional aspect of the story, and is purposefully meant to highlight the fact that monsters can seduce us with 'pretty words'. This should go without saying, but I absolutely do not condone the actions of Allen Ginsberg, most especially his involvement with NAMBLA.)
> 
> Ahdeen--the phonetic spelling of the Russian один, meaning 'one'.  
> Doovah--два, 'two'.  
> Lzhets--лжец, 'liar'  
> Myaznik-- мясник, 'butcher'  
> Palach--палач, 'slaughterer' 
> 
> kleiner Fuchs--can mean 'little fox' in German or also reference the small tortoiseshell, a striking orange eurasian butterfly. I chose this epithet for the play on words that inevitably arises; fox for neil of course, but also a backhanded compliment for neil while serving as a jab at the canon orange for aftg. 
> 
> Toujours une tempête--french for 'Always a storm'.
> 
> Adapted references and mentions of:  
> Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘Lenor’, ‘The Raven’  
> Euripides’ ‘Hippolytus  
> Yevgeny Yevtushenko’s ‘Telling Lies to the Young is Wrong’ (a spiritual thank you to my momma for reading me this before bed instead of the magic tree house books I wanted her to read me when I was in second grade. i truly cannot believe her Yev fixation actually ended up being useful all these years later ajsdhdjskl)
> 
> Line reference to Shakespeare’s Hamlet
> 
> Ave, used by Neil. This means Hail in latin ( for context within Neil’s use of the word, he’s referencing the Catholic heralding of the Virgin Mary: Ave Maria, Hail Mary (I grew up in a very catholic environment so yes if you see me sprinkle some catholic voodoo in its bc I need to put some of this random information to use ajhdjsk))
> 
> Line reference to Richard Siken’s Little Beast (Crush)


	13. The Before, Before the After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a DOOZY and it officially ends PART ONE of titwtwe!! thank you all SO MUCH for reading and commenting, I look forward to hearing yall's thoughts every single day. in celebration of finally finishing the first part, I will be posting a bonus chapter later this week before we kickoff into Part two. More info on the bonus chapter will be given when uploaded. this chapter is not beta'd and I apologize in advance for the typos.
> 
> chapter summary: questions and conundrums. watching eyes and broken ground. the before, before the after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: references to canon typical violence; same referenced themes of drugs; mild implications of murder, including parricide, and cannib*lism; explicit sexual content in part vii.
> 
> hi this chapter is dedicated to TwinMoonSun842, thank you for your lovely comments moony you made my cry twice when I was reading them <333

I.

Andrew hates him.

Andrew _hates_ that he hates him.

He despises the fact he’s invested enough to react at all.

Every fucking time he sees Neil’s face he wants to smash something, hands itching for the knives he keeps tucked away on his person.

And he hates that, he hates that, he. hates. that.

“You’re scared,” Renee comments a week later as they stroll through Scavenger’s Field, the second of the three expansive gardens on campus. Despite the chill and oncoming nimbostratus clouds overheard, groups of students lounge in picnic blankets and lawn chairs. Ignoring classes, ignoring responsibilities, ignoring the weather. Andrew hates them all.

Feeling is exhausting.

“I’d be foolish not to be.” It’s not beneath Andrew to admit such. Fear keeps people alive. Fear inspires response. Fear motivates instinct. Cowering in the face of fear is what he’s _not_ going to do.

Renee tilts her head at him. The ends of her hair match the amber Bria she’s sporting. “You recognize him too, then?”

Andrew almost stops walking but he recovers just in time. “Recognize?”

“Yes.” Several yards away, a group of students shake a bottle of Möet. The students scream and laugh as one of the men twists the bottle open and the champagne sprays them all. Alas, the highs and lows of collegiate hedonism. “He’s not who he says he is.”

Andrew would laugh if he had the energy to do so. Even under his black Kensington, the cold is nagging. Fucking winter. “That much is obvious. What did you mean, ‘recognize’?”

Renee grimaces. Her eyes dart around the field before saying in low Cantonese, “He’s Family, Andrew.”

Now Andrew does stop walking. Renee pauses along with him, stuffing her gloved hands in her coat pocket. “Really,” Andrew states. He knew the kid was connected to the Wesninski’s, but if he’s Family—

“It’s true. Nevix confirmed yesterday.” Renee sniffs. The chill has reddened her nose. _Rudolph_. “It took some digging, but the evidence is in stone. He’s Hatford’s investment.”

Andrew stares unseeing at one of the topiary bushes. It’s shaped in the form of a vixen, frozen mid-run. _Who are you running from? Who are you running_ _to?_

“The nephew,” Andrew says, connecting the dots. “Nathaniel Hatford.”

While many, including the mundane public, are aware of The Butcher’s crimes (how could they not once it became known he’d been brutally stabbed to death by Moriyama turn coats years prior), not many knew of the Russian Terror’s son, Nathaniel. But Andrew, and courtesy of Renee, has his ways. He’s not at Foxborough, his own extravagant prison, for nothing. He was already skeptical of the possibility that Neil was connected to the Wesninski line—after all, Nathaniel didn’t even attempt to disguise the obvious giveaways. A near ginger and frostbitten gaze isn’t a look you see every day. Which, Andrew can’t help but wonder why Nathaniel didn’t make a better point to disguise himself.

 _Unless he isn’t trying to hide_ —

But that scene in Court Square confirmed Andrew’s suspicions beyond expectations.

Neil Josten is a very long way from home, isn’t he?

Andrew says, “But Hatford’s dead.”

Renee nods. “Stuart, yes. Nathaniel, not so much. Which begs the question—“

“Why is Neil still alive?” Andrew finishes. “Wait—no. Who’s allowing him to live at all?” He rubs a leather glove over his face. Damn Kevin and Dobson. What Andrew would give for a line right now. Not that that would ever happen, especially considering the harsh reprimand he received after his ‘stunt’, as Nevix called it, last week when he had to tell Dobson and Nevix what happened, the latter over the phone. Now with Dobson’s concern, he was down to only biweekly doses of Dust to work with. And that was technically supervised drug use.

He’s never even done cocaine, for fuck’s sake, but let Kevin believe what he wants. The less Kevin knows about Andrew’s dealings with OCRA—which, if Andrew has any say, should stay _none_ —the better.

The _safer_ Kevin will be.

“Does he recognize you?” Andrew asks Renee as they begin walking again. He surreptitiously omits the fact that Neil recognizes Andrew—and that Andrew knows Neil knows. There’s no need to alarm Renee when Andrew has a sinking suspicion Neil isn’t nearly as cutthroat as they were led to believe. Which is another problem altogether.

Though, Andrew still doesn’t appreciate the little act Neil put on in Court Square. Neil knew exactly what Andrew had been talking about.

 _Why couldn’t you have been a monster?_ Andrew inwardly curses Neil. At least in that case, Andrew knows how to deal with monsters. It’s just like putting up with himself, but with more steps.

“No. He wouldn’t,” Renee answers to his question. She’s wrong, but neither know that. “We never met. The files we have on Wesninski’s son are old, but I’d never forget that face, even if you doused my brain in bleach.”

“Lovely thought,” Andrew mutters. _Except I could say the same and he still knew me_.“At present, is he dangerous?”

Renee offers a very unladylike snort. “You know that answer already. Ask what you mean.”

“You’re lucky I tolerate you, you know.” Andrew mocks a glare at her. “Who is he a danger to?”

Renee pauses again in her walking to pick at a fallen flower separated from its bunch. She rolls the stem between her fingers, white petals embracing the chill. Eidetic memorypersevering, Andrew’s mind races with useless information. _Asphodel._ Botanical classification: Asphodelus albus. Herbaceous perennial, native to the Mediterranean region, extending from the Balkans to northern Africa. In the recent decades, its yellow-tinted strain, Narthecium Americanum, has been but all extirpated from the Carolinas.

But at Foxborough, it grows a plenty. New buds transplanted every other winter, despite the regulations against doing so.

In Greek mythology, the plant is said to be an ugly, anorexic weed. Grey and decrepit, the roots litter the fields of the forgotten dead. In reality, asphodel is much prettier. A mere lily. Meaning: Remembered beyond the tomb. Or, my regrets follow you to the grave.

Andrew always wondered if the Fields of Asphodel contained the same flower that lived above ground; the only difference in description was due to the dead forgetting what beauty should look like. Death is the mother of beauty, after all. A unrecognizable shadow of what once was, inside and out.

Renee finally looks at him. “I don’t know,” she says truthfully. “The only logical conclusion that Neil is alive and Hatford isn’t would be that Neil’s loyalties have changed. If that’s the case, and if what Nevix says is right, he’s Ichirou’s charge now.”

_Unless there’s another goddamn clan we don’t know about._

Andrew rolls his eyes to himself.

_Not likely._

“‘Studying to take over the family company’.” The _Family_ Company. Andrew bites the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste blood. “That’s what he told me. Why he’s here. He isn’t lying about that, is he?”

Renee shakes her head, still twirling the flower in her hand. “I believe that.”

“Funny timing, don’t you think?” Renee continues. “Andrea dies first. Then Gordon. A month later: Riko kicks the bucket. And lo and behold, Nathaniel—Neil, I should say—shows up. Almost as if…“

“He’s taking their place,” Andrew mutters.

Andrea Gutierrez was a senior when she was found hanging in her dorm room almost a year ago. _Suicide_ , the official autopsy decided. Her roommate, Luca Tsvetkova, had been tied and unconscious in the corner with no memory of what happened. Yeah, Andrew had laughed, because every suicide involves knocking out and restraining your roommate. Luca refused to answer any questions about the incident. Three days later, Luca went missing. Two days and twelve miles away after, her body was found in an abandoned junkyard. Throat cut and legs broken.

 _Black bear attack_ , the local authorities had said. Like fucking hell. Last Andrew checked, bears didn’t waste energy breaking their prey’s legs. But then again, authorities never knew what they were doing either, so. No surprise.

The real question was why Andrea and Luka’s bodies were kept intact to begin with. The Family was never known to respect the dead. Nor were they known to be sloppy. Cremation and distribution was always the M.O.

_Unless the Family isn’t trying to be discreet._

Or…

_Unless that wasn’t the Family’s doing._

Maybe there is more at play than Andrew wants to believe. Scarred face and recognizable guise. For the second time, the thought rings in Andrew’s mind: Neil’s not trying to hide. So why, why, why?

He remembers the day the Moriyama’s resident menace bit the bullet. Riko hadn’t attended Foxborough, but anyone who is anything knows who he is. Or was. After the news broke that Riko was caught channeling Family funds to the Hatford legacy (a convoluted exaggeration: it was more like bribery for asylum—bribery, which, apparently, hadn’t been persuasive enough)—well. Suicide was just too convenient an excuse for Riko’s sudden passing.

Kevin had been a mess. Losing Seth had been hard enough. Andrew never understood what cursed source fueled Kevin’s grief for the first man. After all, Gordon hadn’t been the most pleasant individual. But he knew Kevin held guilt over Gordon’s death, and no amount of arguing or attempts to comfort could reassure Kevin. Andrew had long given up doing so and resolved to let the man deal with his grievances in peace.

But not a month later came the news of Riko. And if Kevin were a mess before, he was a desolation following. A poor case of Stockholm Syndrome, if Andrew were honest.

Yet the day they heard about Riko, he allowed Kevin to curl into his chest, ugly sobs tearing out of him like the world was thrown off her axis. Andrew had felt something sharp and edged crack in his own chest watching Kevin fall apart under him. For a moment, Andrew thought his sternum was going to break open down the middle like a rupture in the earth, ready to spill every shadow and secret from Andrew’s bones if it meant offering Kevin a breath of relief.

Instead, Andrew had said flatly, “He doesn’t deserve your tears.”

“I know,” Kevin had hiccuped. “But. I can’t. I can’t _stop it from hurting.”_

Once upon a time, Riko had been Kevin’s brother. Not blood, but shared burden bound them together. After Kayleigh’s death, the Moriyama’s, Kayleigh’s own benefactors, took Kevin under their protection.

Until the day the burdens weighed too heavy and Riko took his rage out on Kevin. Two broken ribs, a shattered hand, and one gaping heart later, Kevin found his way to South Carolina. It was the only point of contact he had left, the rumor of a father he’d never met working as a history professor for a school he’d only feared of attending.

Fear is a necessary motivation, and sometimes the most necessary evil.

David Wymack, rumors be thanked, was indeed alive and well when Kevin had shown up on his doorstep. His hand was still in a cast when he knocked on the oak door, tears not yet dried from his swollen, bruised cheeks.

And for the first time since Kayleigh, Kevin was embraced—albeit by a very shocked Wymack—tenderly and welcome. The rest is, well, history.

“It’s going to hurt,” Andrew had murmured to Kevin. Crap ability to comfort be damned, he placed a hand on Kevin’s back, feeling Kevin’s shaking sobs flow into his own body like cotton absorbing blood. “But you’ve survived worse.” _You’ll survive this too. I won’t allow it any different._

And only months after, Neil Josten arrived on campus with eyes like hell froze over and a devil’s grin to match. _I’ll survive you too, one way or the other._ From the first moment Andrew noticed Neil in Ethics to the time Neil interrupted Andrew’s night in, Andrew had hated him.

And he loathed the feeling.

Speaking of:

“Uncle,” Andrew states suddenly. The memory of a book and low lights. Powder and overpowering. Neil on the floor below him. _Interrupting my night-in_. A fever dream, nasty side effects. Andrew grins, cruel. “Ding-ding-ding. There’s the lie.”

Renee purses her lips, leaning against one of the life sized bushes. “What lie?”

“He mentions an uncle from time to time. Says mystery man is paying his tuition, his living arrangements, etcetera.” Andrew stretches his neck upwards and takes in the ashen sky. Snow will be falling soon. “What Josten didn’t say is that poor Uncle is six feet in the dirt.”

Renee sounds surprised when she says, “Do you talk to Neil a lot?”

Andrew considers his answer. “Unfortunately, more than I’d prefer.”

_A lie of your own. Admit it, you relish the mystery._

Neil is just another puzzle for Andrew to piece together, and a dangerous one at that. Andrew worships danger like a self-destructive sinner. “Kevin clings to him like a toddler to an overbearing mother,” Andrew says. A bullshit attempt as justification. “Can’t get rid of one without pissing off the other.”

“Interesting.” Renee almost manages to hide her smile. “And how does that make you feel?”

Now Andrew does glare at her. “I hate children.”

Renee laughs, tinkling bells. “Not what I mean and you know it.”

Andrew sighs. His hand reaches out to touch the leaves of another bush, fingers skimming over the blades. “I don’t trust him.” _But._

There’s always a goddamn but.

“But you want to,” Renee reads between the lines.

“I don’t want—“

“Bullshit,” Renee sing songs. “That doesn’t work with me, J. You know this. Tell me, though: Why? What’s the interest in him, other than working on our case?”

Andrew retracts his hand as something wet hits his cheek. And again. Snow falling. “Neil is Kevin’s obsession. Not mine."

“Which, by definition, means he’s your’s as well."

“That’s not how it works.”

Renee scoffs. “That’s exactly how you work.”

Andrew clicks his tongue. “Does your God ever tell you how annoying you are?”

“All the time.” Renee smiles. “And She loves me regardless.”

“Her misery.” Andrew represses a shiver in the oncoming snow. Around them, students are packing their blankets and various essentials, hightailing it out of the increasing downfall. Rich and stupid, not an ounce of backbone on them. Andrew abhors their presence.

Getting back on topic, he says, “I don’t think he’s a threat. Not to us, at least.” Finally spoken aloud, the confession is a bitter relief.

Renee takes a step in front of Andrew and crosses her arms. “I know you don’t. You wouldn’t have let him get so close to Kevin if he were. Or you, for that matter.”

He sneers. “Don’t think me so self-preserving.” The scars on his body would be testament enough, but his still beating heart proves otherwise. “If the Family were interested in any of us, they’d do a better job at efficiency. And concealment.”

_(Isn’t trying to hide, isn’t trying to hide. Why, why, why?)_

“Perhaps Nathaniel—Neil—is right. Studying and training, their new heir and all that.”

Andrew taps a finger against his chin. “But there’s something else. Something we’re missing.” _Why a Wesninski? Why would the Family be interested in outsiders?_

Too many questions. Too little answers.

But so many tracks.

_Little fox, little fox. We’ve caught your scent._

“So. What are we going to do with him?” Renee asks. She blinks as a snowflake falls onto the tip of her nose, gaze going cross-eyed.

“The only thing we can do.” Andrew steps forward and holds out his hand. Renee doesn’t hesitate to hold her own out, dropping the delicate asphodel she still holds into his palm. “Watch. Listen. Wait for him to make a mistake.”

_The mystery, the mystery. You adore the mystery._

“And in the meantime—“ Andrew rolls the stem back and forth, peering at the already wilting petals—“if it appears he’s not against us, we figure out who is. The world can not bring us down so easily.”

“If you find that the world hates you, know it has hated me before you,” Renee quotes sagely.

“I’m sick of that bullshit,” Andrew offers. Renee laughs. He tries not to smile.

“And if he’s against us?” Renee asks.

“Then we bring them all down. Unfortunately, we don't have the luxury—“ Andrew tilts his head at the sky “—to sit back and watch the world burn.” He makes a fist, slowly crumpling the flower beneath the pressure. “But if worst comes to worst?”

“Might as well enjoy the end, after all.”

_Little fox, little fox. Who are you running from? Who are you running to?_

Que la chasse commence.

Let the hunt begin.

II.

Oremor loves his job.

He’s held quite a few throughout his overstretched life. His first had been sufficient enough, mowing the lawn for the wilted shell of an elderly citizen and all.

However, he had to find another line of work when said citizen got mowed down too. The grass isn’t the only living organism that needed trimming, but unfortunately, shredded skin can’t sign a paycheck.

He worked in the deli section at his local supermarket next. It was fun. His boss was, well, not. Oremor took care of that. More meat to slice and all that jazz. Not to mention, the deli received rave reviews about the limited time special selection that week.

And with one employer out of commission, Oremor gladly accepted his promotion.

His name wasn’t Oremor at the time, of course. He was born with a name not quite common, but neither rare. He was simple. Normal. Nothing out of the ordinary, never extraordinary.

Oremor. simply. _was_.

Until the day Sister came home.

Sister was much older than Oremor. For reference, she left for University when he was still in pampers. He didn’t have many memories of her when she returned, but something inside Oremor at the time told him that there would be many, many memories to come.

He wasn’t wrong.

The day Sister returned, Oremor had to stay late at the market. There had been a new employee that needed a serious case of reprimanding. A cleaver, a mop, and one grinder later, and the offending worker was more than taken care of. Oremor showered in the back room before making his way back home, only to be met with Sister.

It was only her, and no one else. Oremor thought it strange when he opened the front door and didn’t see another soul except the older Malcolm. He was barely a man at the time, not yet left for University. So, as any young person would, he expected to be met with the sight of his parents in the foyer, or the kitchen, or any other needless room in the house.

There were no parents, though. No Mother, no Father. Only Sister.

“You’re home early,” he said and closed the front door. His eyes skimmed the entrance again, up the stairs and banister, to the long stretch of hall leading to the rest of the house. Mother always greeted him after work. Father always called out to him when he entered.

“I am,” Alol agreed. But she wasn’t Alol at the time. She was her opposite, her reflection. The Before before the After. She was Lola, and Oremor feared her.

“Where is Mama?” Oremor asked. He made his voice low, dismissive. As if he didn’t care, though he did. As much as he feared his Sister, he feared her answer more. “Da?”

“Taken care of.”

Oremor blinked and he wondered if this would be one of those moments in life that no matter how many years in the future, he would remember with painstaking clarity. The sight of his sister standing on the third step of the staircase, blonde hair so bleached it may as well have been Clorox. The smell of the wooden banister, slightly pungent with the addition of the blood splattered on its spine. The same blood coating Lola’s left hand, though it wasn’t her’s. If Oremor concentrated hard enough, he thought he could hear his mother’s voice, weeping in that haunted, metsoforte reverb. But that was probably just the sound of his heart pumping back to life in stuttered emotion.

“They are dead,” Oremor stated. He didn’t need to ask; the fact was just that. A fact. An unchangeable truth. Sister was home from University and the children were growing up. Parents were just collateral.

But—

(always a but)

—“That was to be _my job_ ,” Oremor couldn’t help spitting out. He wasn’t used to showing his feelings or, what was left of them, but the unfiltered jealousy in his system needed an outlet.

“Your time will come, брат,” Lola said. She took a step down, steel boots clanging with the movement. A smile tugged at her lips and Oremor scoffed. “The Butcher has plans for you.”

The Butcher. The Bastard to end all bastards. Oremor wanted nothing to do with his sister’s temporary god. Oremor was a butcher in his own right. He was manager of the deli and doing a damn good job at it. Why waste his time on trivial gang matters? Never mind the upgrade his salary would take, Oremor didn’t need the money.

“You think I am asking,” Lola hummed. She pursed her lips, crimson as the stains on her hand. “I assure you, I am not. The Butcher has plans and you will not refuse them.”

“I—“ Oremor dropped his work bag and pointed at his sister. “I am not part of your little army, your game of capture the godforsaken flag. And—“ he pointed down the hall where he could bet his paycheck Mother would be laying, throat sliced open. “That was supposed to be _my_ kill. Not your’s, you selfish bitch.”

“Oh, Romero,” Lola laughed. She took the last couple steps down and walked over to her brother, cupping his face with the hand not bloodstained. He refused to flinch under her touch but when she tightened her hold hard enough to bruise, he tensed. “How I missed you all these years.”

“You called for Christmas,” he reminded her blandly. “I did not miss you.”

Lola sighed and released her grip. Raising the other blood sucked limb, she wiped her fingers on the lapel of his jacket and said, “You should be thanking me. The damned Moriyama’s sent a scout last week—a scout, which, I intervened.” She gave him a pointed look. “You didn’t even know that, did you? Too wrapped up in your own mundane killings and microwavable dinners to be aware that Tetsuji is still watching our family.”

“Hm.” Oremor stepped away from her but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of admitting that no, in fact, he wasn’t aware the Moriyama’s were still on their case. One of the most influential families in charge of human trafficking and distribution of black market resources, the Moriyama’s had long been on tense terms with The Butcher’s own company. The Malcolms, dutiful followers of the Russian Terror, moved from their cousin’s Essex manor to live under the Wesninski protection long before Oremor was born.

He’d wanted no part in their world. Not because of misplaced morals or anything so tedious, but because Oremor simply _was_. Oremor was simple. International criminal syndicates were not. Oremor was ordinary. Russian crime lords and their lackeys were not. He was nothing out of the oridinary, never extraordinary. Fueding with rival billionaire monstrosities, however, was. And that just could not do.

“I know what gives you pause, brother,” Lola said, sarcastic in her gentleness. “There is no reason to be. Why push away the opportunity to serve a god? Why refuse the blessings you are offered?”

 _Serve a god_ , Oremor wanted to laugh. He’d rather punch one in the face along with every Believer, from the crazed Gottkult to the oblivious Quakers.

“What blessings does The Butcher offer?” Oremor demanded. He thought of Mama and Da, and their endless fortune. All the money in the world couldn’t save their skin in the end.

“Blood,” Lola answered, and Oremor both despised and reveled in her deathlust, the same dark glint forever etched in his own soul. “Blood and bones, brother. The Butcher will smite down all in his path, and we will bathe in that glorious aftermath.”

Oremor shook his head despite the beautiful visions he was already dreaming up. “Why now, then? Why come for me now?”

The truth is that, while Lola did go to University, her attendance only lasted four weeks. The Butcher recruited her early, and now that Oremor was (nearly) of age, the time had come to welcome the last of the Malcolms. Parents, again, had only been collateral.

“Because,” Lola said. She raised a hand to her throat and for the first time, Oremor noticed an open wound trailing from the side of her neck to her collarbone. He almost smiled; Mama or Da must have fought back. They had been even more blood crazy than their children.

“The End is coming. Our world is on the brink of collapse, and it’s going to be _beautiful_.”

She leaned close enough for Oremor to smell the last of her perfume, cinnamon and cloves. And so, so much blood. “We’re going to eat the world raw, brother.”

Oremor thought, _Maybe we weren’t born to be so simple, after all._

III.

“Why do you call yourself that?” Lola once asked.

“My name?”

“Your name is Romero.”

Oremor shrugged, pausing in his cleaning of a Mezzaluna. The motel they’d been staying at at the time offered an impressive selection of towels to choose. “When you look in a mirror, is that not your face peering back? Or another, all you but replaced with all else? Disjointed and opposite, contrary yet identical.”

Lola made a face. “You are Romero.”

“And thus I am Oremor.”

Lola huffed. She released her Glock’s clip and made to refill the cartridge.

“What you call me does not hinder my abilities,” Oremor reasoned. “I could call you Lola, Alol, Little Demon. You would kill all the same. Likewise, I execute with the same precision whether or not you call me by my name.”

Lola slid another bullet into the magazine cartridge. “You say many words, brother. It’s tiring.”

“And you utter as much nonsense.”

Lola mimed shooting him in the head and then herself. “As you say, brother.”

And that was that.

IV.

At first, Oremor did not get along with The Butcher.

Nathan Wesninski took care of that. When it comes down to it, a man does not truly need all ten fingers, nor both ears nor ears. Certainly not all his teeth, and surely not all his ribs. It’s quite amazing how many unnecessary appendages the human body drags around. When The Butcher finished teaching Oremor how to get along with his superior, Oremor was just as capable at living as he was before. One eye less, two incisors, a canine, and both pre molars gone, an extracted rib bone, a pinky finger, a right ear—

Perhaps, Oremor’s own extra pieces were simply collateral as well.

Unlike Oremor, Nathan’s name certainly meant something in itself. They didn’t call him The Butcher, The Slaughterer, for nothing.

Maybe it was reverse psychology. Maybe it was an odd case of Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe Oremor was more fucked in the head than he originally thought. Whatever the case, when two of The Butcher’s men turned coat and accepted the Moriyama’s bribe, slitting Nathan’s throat in the same sentence that was ordering another search team for his wife and son, Oremor felt more anger over the death than he’d felt in his lifetime.

That was his boss. His benefactor. His new and bloodily improved god that was supposed to lead he and Lola to the End of the World. When Oremor sold his soul to The Butcher, he thought he was guaranteed results.

What does a man do when he sees his god torn down from the same pedestal that raised him up?

That man vows justice. A damning prayer breathed from the Devil’s lips. An oath, a vow, a promise that he will see the streets bathed in blood and he will swim in its rivers if it’s the last thing he does.

It’s human nature.

The Moriyama’s would pay. The Butcher’s heir, Nathaniel, a prince without a crown, would have an option: coronation or containment. Lola and Oremor followed the child from the shadows for years. They almost had him in their sights when Stuart Hatford flew in like a goddamn _deus ex machina_ parody. The Malcolm siblings retreated, strengthened their numbers. They would come back with their king or elect a new one in his place if Nathaniel refused.

But just when they thought they were ready to storm the Essex manor, the same lot of property the Malcolm’s once were on good terms with decades prior, the Moriyama’s rained down. Hatford’s men were totaled and Stuart slain. Nathaniel was whisked away once more to be raised a pawn of a rigged chessboard.

Lola wondered if getting the boy back was necessary. “He’s probably as useless as that bitch,” she vented one day, referring to the late Mary Hatford. “I’d bet a lung he doesn’t even know the difference between a Kaikren and a Kukri. And if he doesn’t want to accept his place? What then?”

Oremor sighed as he drove to their next safe house. Last they heard, Nathaniel was being transported from Essex to Kyoto. Apparently, the Moriyama’s believed The Butcher’s men were completely out of commission. It was just too easy infiltrating The Family’s lines and getting information. What was harder, however, was physically retaining the son of their fallen god.

“We will find the boy,” Oremor told his sister instead of answering. “If rumors are true, the Family is making preparations to send him to the University when he is of age.”

The University. The hallmark of all corruption and criminal excellence.

Foxborough.

“We will detain him then,” Oremor continued. “Remember, Sister. We have a kingdom to build. Don’t let your denial of Tradition or doubts stand in the way.”

Lola scoffed but a ruthful grin broke through. “Who would’ve known,” she mused, “that you would one day be as determined as me to continue the legacy?”

 _Not as,_ Oremor said. _More._

Life is not worth living if one is simple. Oremor finally understood that over time. It was why he felt connected to something greater than he when he relieved the Simple and Normal waste of the earth of their torturous breath.

Funny. Perhaps, Oremor built his own god out of the dust and ashes of his sin.

Lola looked out the passenger window, deep in thought. Her sharpened nails—more like talons—rested tense where her crossed arms lay against her chest.

“So, Brother,” she finally said as Oremor pulled onto the motorway. “Foxborough, you were saying?”

There was an opening for a janitor position. Lola was fine with that. Oremor preferred something else. Two plane tickets, a cab ride, and fifteen minutes of research later, Oremor took care of Foxborough’s head gardener. Buried him in the same soil he tended to. A day later, the job ad went out. Oremor applied. He was hired within the week.

Gardening. Cleaning. Easy jobs. Simple covers. Only Time was against them. But the Malcolm siblings latched onto the opportunity like ants to a honeyed corpse. Within a month working at the University, Oremor’s silver tongue worked in his favors, spreading song after story after scandal to cement his and Lola’s validity at the school. Truth became fiction and memory become warped. If you were to ask even the Dean about the Malcolm siblings, easily titled under a pseudonym, he would tell you of the siblings decades long service to the University. Despite the fact that by the time Neil Josten walked Foxborough’s grounds, it’d only been a couple years.

Their disguises didn’t hurt, either. Oldest trick in the book. Though, Oremor’s glass eye and dentures weren’t the most comfortable.

But the siblings bided their time. They were nothing if not patient. They didn’t need the world to end immediately. They didn’t care that the Moriyama’s were still at large.

Because no matter what, the Wesninski line would rise again. Even Rome had to fall, and the Moriyama’s time was running out.

For the time being, Lola—Alol, as she was resigned to be called at Fox—and Oremor had other matters to pass the time. Other problems.

And damn did they make use of their time.

V.

Nathaniel was not the only investment the Moriyama’s decided to send to Fox. Before Nathaniel was Seth Gordon. Before Seth was Luca Tsvetkova. Before Luca, Andrea Gutierrez. All of diverse backgrounds but united by one common factor: their benefactor.

It was Lola’s idea to take the Moriyama’s investments out of the picture while they waited for Nathaniel to show; it was to be small jabs at the careful web the Moriyama’s spun for themselves, and no way to prove just who was targeting the Family’s young recruits. Stage the deaths as a suicide, a wild animal attack. If the authorities became too suspicious (unlikely, Foxborough had a reputation of shutting outside questions down), the Malcolms always had extra funds to zip up any loose lips. But besides the various recruits they exterminated, they most of all wanted Kevin Day dead. Never mind retrieving the son of their fallen leader, if Lola and Oremor could kill the boy that the Moriyama’s were so invested in re-obtaining, the Malcolm siblings would feel somewhat avenged.

Except getting to Kevin proved even more difficult than capturing Nathaniel… but for different reasons.

Andrew Minyard was _different reasons._ An unforeseeable variable in Lola and Oremor’s plans. The problem was that Andrew’s main mission shifted from other tasks to protecting Kevin Day when the latter showed up on campus. Worse yet, Andrew was backed by a frustratingly influential government agency. To kill him outright would be a cry for war—a war, which, the Malcolms had absolutely no chance in hell at winning. But to allow him to live and continue to painstakingly defend Kevin Day with every waking breath was just outright tiring.

“He’s not worth our time,” Oremor said one day, meaning Andrew, as Lola paced in the storage room. She was busy ‘sharing’ her thoughts on how they should proceed as they waited for The Butcher’s son to arrive in the next few months.

“Yes. He is. They both are,” Lola argued. “Kill Day and piss on every one the Moriyama’s plans. Kill Minyard and piss on fucking OCRA.”

“I think you mean piss _off.”_ Oremor yawned. “Are you blind, Sister? OCRA will surely retaliate if we mess with their prodigy. The Family will retract their plans for Nathan’s boy if Day is out of the picture. Focus on the mission, not the collateral.”

Lola waved him off. “You and your damned collateral.”

He should’ve known she wouldn’t listen to him. Antsy waiting and overcome with bloodlust, she slipped into the Minyard twins' dorm room when the boys were out a week later. “Cleaning lady” sure did have its perks. One forgotten water bottle, a packet of Cracker Dust, and Andrew’s fate should have been sealed.

Emphasis on _should have._

To say Oremor was livid was an understatement. Not only did Lola not consult with him on her assassination attempt, but the attempt _failed_. Andrew Minyard, despite all odds, survived. And to top it all off, OCRA was now on the lookouts for the source of Andrew’s poisoning.

Goddamn unforeseeable variables.

If anything good came of it, Minyard didn’t seem to suspect any outside powers. He was too busy reporting on mundane matters—human trafficking intel, new ringleaders coming to the forefront of the Arson empire, professors putting more time into unethical testing on live subjects, etcetera—to his Chief of Operations, and continuing his pathetic bodyguard mission, to notice a new player on the battlefield. By the time Nathaniel showed up, Oremor reckoned that Minyard had no idea how in over his head he was at Foxborough. Unknowingly trapped between the webs of the Moriyama’s and Malcolms invisible threads.

It was almost poetic, Oremor thought. Like his Noose.

Noose was why Oremor loved his job, ability to hunt and kill aside. He was constantly amazed by the oak, and even more so intrigued by the legends associated with it. Some claimed Oremor made up the stories, but the truth was, Oremor learned it all from a history textbook on Foxborough that Alol found when cleaning in Witherspear. He did love history. History was full of Tradition. Oremor worshipped Tradition.

He didn’t even invent the song that the students claimed he did. He just sang the rhyme found in _Time and Tracks: An In-Depth Look into Foxborough and Her History._ If any of the students opened a book that was worth their salt, they would know that—

> Found five, left one
> 
> Saw four, met none
> 
> Tripped thrice, can’t run
> 
> Blinked twice, eyes gone
> 
> One man, undone
> 
> Leaves a-fallin’ slowly,
> 
> Cheeks no longer rosy
> 
> This is how they’re knowing
> 
> The world’s about to end

—otherwise known as Foxborough’s first (and only) nursery rhyme, could be found in chapter four, section nine.

Oremor doesn’t quite understand the obsession with creepy and mildly threatening children’s hymns, but he’s not complaining about it. In fact, he basically endorses the trend. He’s currently humming the song as he trims the head of a camellia bush with his shears while he eyes a pair of students sitting under an elm tree to the west. The students seem to either be waiting for someone or freezing their asses off for no reason. Oremor would usually not care either way except for the fact who the students are.

Oremor makes a mental note to find Alol as soon as possible.

Their prince has made allies with the Queen.

VI.

“...problem revolves around the most highly celebrated thinkers, yet still possessing the most highly immoral values.”

Kevin gestures with his left hand emphatically to highlight whatever point he’s trying to make. Something about cool dude this, smart dude that, problematic philosophies shit. Neil hasn’t been paying that much attention to be sure, though, from where he lays his head against Kevin’s shoulder while Day finishes up their lesson on Foucault. At least, Neil thought they were discussing Foucault. At one point Kevin mentioned Serialism Composition and whips so Neil can’t be too sure.

“Neil. Neil, are you even listening?”

Neil blinks from his musings and burrows his head mindlessly into the crook of Kevin’s shoulder. “Bien sûr que oui,” he mutters flippantly.

They’re sitting side by side under a tree that barely offers solace from the falling snow. Though it’s cold as hell (heh, Dante pun, Neil thinks), it’s just more of an excuse to curl up closer on the man next to him. Kevin doesn’t seem to mind, but his constant gestures and sudden movements when he gets excited about some concept force Neil to readjust himself on Kevin, lest he get elbowed in the side by an eager arm.

Neil can’t lie about this, though. Kevin’s excited expressions when he’s so focused is something Neil wouldn’t give up for the world.

“Liar,” Kevin smirks. “You have no idea what I just said.”

According to Neil’s watch, tutoring time ran out fifteen minutes ago. Which means he really can’t be blamed for tuning out the rest of the lecture Kevin’s giving in rapid French. Not that Neil has any trouble understanding, despite what he wants Kevin to believe. But because it's much more interesting to focus on the ripple of muscle on Kevin’s arm as he gestures, or the deep reverb of Kevin’s voice as he gets increasingly more ramped up, or the snow falling on Kevin’s dark, scarred hands that only serve to emphasize how determined Neil is to never let such flesh come to harm again.

“What does a French sadist have to do with interrogative pronouns?” Neil points out. When Kevin opens and closes his mouth without a sufficient response, Neil laughs. “It’s fine. You’re cute when you’re excited.”

The statement is out of his mouth before his brain catches up with it, but it’s too late to take it back. Kevin flushes and Neil turns his cheek into Kevin’s collar, face burning. “Um. You don’t have to respond to that.”

“No, it’s uh—“ Kevin clears his throat and Neil wishes he could see his expression. Is he mad? Uncomfortable? “You’re right, I got sidetracked. My bad. We can go over pronouns next time? If that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Neil says with a sigh. Agreement, that’s easy. Neil can do easy. What’s not easy is that the previously relaxed atmosphere seems to have blown away with the February chill. Despite hating the cold, Neil is desperate to cling to its existence. As long as it's cold, time isn’t moving, and May is still out of reach. As long it’s cold, he’s reminded he’s alive. What was it Camus said? _Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai découvert en moi un invincible été._ Or, as Kevin quoted, right before hurling a snowball at a topiary bush an hour before with a grin.

Neil lifts himself off Kevin, immediately missing the warm touch. He wants to live so bad it’s killing him. But he can’t let his wishes interfere with anyone’s else’s life. He’s not that selfish.

Kevin watches Neil pull away with an expression Neil can’t read. Instead of over analyzing it, Neil looks off towards their scattered books and bags laying along the frosted grass, already covered in a fine layer of snow. Kevin's practice bag has fallen to the side, courtesy of a workout from earlier that day. They could’ve gone inside but Kevin’s supposed to be meeting with Andrew, and Neil didn’t mind studying outside with the man while they waited for the blonde to return from Scavenger’s Field. It’s been a week since the incident in Court Square and Neil’s fairly confident Andrew won’t be as volatile as before. Well, maybe.

What Neil does mind is the constant gaze of the gardener that continues to watch them across the lawns. Kevin doesn’t notice and Neil doesn’t acknowledge it, not aloud. But the knowledge that he’s being watched, and not too inconspicuously, is disconcerting.

“So, Neil,” Kevin starts, stealing Neil’s attention. He wraps his coat closer to himself as if Neil’s absence provoked such a change in temperature. For Neil, at least, it did. “I was wondering if—um, you wanted to hang out later this week.”

Neil stares ahead at his satchel laying open on the grass. “I thought we already agreed on the next session.”

From the corner of his eye, Neil sees Kevin flush self-consciously. “Well, yes,” he says, “but I meant outside of tutoring. We’ve never, really. You know. Hung out besides that.”

“Oh. Um.”

Would it be so selfish to grasp the thread he’s being offered? Would it be so dangerous to give in, just this once? Neil can lie to himself and justify falsehoods all he wants through spending time with Kevin in “tutoring” and creeping in on his exy and theater practices—though, the last two are pushing it and Neil can’t deny that watching Andrew watch Kevin from the shadows is just as self-indulgent.

Neil turns to look at Kevin’s reserved but hopeful face and a strange part of Neil has the sudden urge cry. Hope, such a fragile mask, and Kevin wears it like a crown. A queen amongst the damned. His queen.

Oh, but not his. Never his.

Maybe that’s why Neil wants to cry. Such a foolish facet, emotions.

“I’d like to, but…” Neil trails off as he scoots back to Kevin, gingerly laying his head back on the other’s shoulder. What lie to choose this time? Like picking candy from a basket, but instead of treats, there’s only tricks. _Trick or treat, trick or treat, I’ve only got my lies to eat_. “I’m pretty busy,” he finishes dumbly.

Kevin frowns but visibly relaxes when Neil reclaims his spot near his chest. “Are you sure? There’s a party later this week. It’s not really my or Andrew’s thing, but it can be fun. At least, it’s a way to burn out some stress.”

A party. Neil could laugh at the thought. What would a Foxborough party look like? Drugs and diatribes would surely be child’s play. Anything and everything Neil’s instincts know to stay away from. Yet the sole pair of magnets continue to pull at Neil’s will like a goddamn spell: Andrew and Kevin.

“And Andrew won’t mind if I tag along?” For the second time that day, the statement is out before Neil can censor himself. Though Neil can’t see from his position, he can imagine Kevin’s frown deepening when he speaks next.

“Of course not. It’s not like he hates you,” Kevin says easily. “I mean, it might come off like that but he’s like that with everyone. Don’t take it personal.”

‘ _Doesn’t hate me’ my ass,_ Neil thinks. For once, he keeps that statement to himself.

“Well, don’t you too look cosy.”

Speak of the fucking devil.

“Should I take a picture?” Andrew continues sarcastically as he walks in front of the sitting pair. He must have come up from behind the tree because Neil hadn’t seen him coming. Impossible to miss, really, with hair so blonde it’s almost ice and Kensington so dark he might as well have been the Grim Reaper. The shortest, yet most imposing, Grim Reaper Neil has ever seen. The brutal attractiveness of the man isn’t any grievance, either.

“I’m not photogenic,” Neil jokes as he sits up. It helps distract from the quickening pulse in his heart as Andrew comes closer—though because it’s from Andrew sneaking up on them or his presence itself, Neil can’t tell.

“Hey, ‘Drew,” Kevin smiles up at him and Neil doesn’t miss the ever so slight softening in Andrew’s eyes when the blonde turns to his lover. “How’s Renee doing?”

The question reminds Neil why they were waiting for Andrew in the first place. He doesn’t react to the mention of the other agent as Andrew shrugs. “Annoying as usual. I don’t know why I tolerate her.”

Kevin smirks. “You always say that, yet you still wear that bracelet she made you last year.”

Without breaking eye contact from Kevin, Andrew slides off a red and black rope bracelet from his left wrist and shoves it into his coat pocket. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

Kevin laughs and Neil smiles. Andrew scratches his jaw, nonchalant. It makes Kevin laugh more, and Neil doesn’t think he’s imagining the meaning in the look Neil and Andrew share at the bright sound.

A look that says, _His happiness above all else._

A look that says, _His safety above my own._

A look that says, _We share the same goal, don’t we?_

Andrew huffs lightly as if to dispel whatever bonding moment is occurring between them. Kevin goes to grab his bag and stands, and after a moment, offers his hand to Neil. Neil accepts without hesitation.

“Merci,” he murmurs, and Kevin’s lips curl up.

Andrew lights a cigarette and watches as Neil and Kevin’s hands separate. The auburn experiences the same feeling of being watched, but this time, it’s not unpleasant. It’s something all else entirely that Neil isn’t ready to put a name to.

“Is your uncle an alumnus?”

The unprompted question forces Neil not to noticeably jump. He shoves a book into his bag and ignores the goosebumps breaking out on his skin. “Excuse me?”

“So polite,” Andrew tutts, taking a drag of his Parliament. “I don’t enjoy repeating myself, Neil.”

He’s not sure he remembers Andrew ever calling Neil by his name, and if he has, Neil definitely doesn’t remember the pleasant curl in his chest hearing the syllable spoken from Andrew’s southern drawl.

“Uh, yes,” Neil says. “He graduated a few decades ago. Why?”

Andrew shrugs again. The smoke from his cigarette unfurls around his nose and Neil has the ridiculous image of a dragon preparing to strike. “Just curious, is all. Stuart Hatford is a familiar name, must’ve seen it in the halls,” Andrew explains. “Perhaps he played sports? I bet I’ve seen his name on a trophy somewhere.”

Neil starts to nod. His heart rate has sped up again and though he knows Andrew must be playing at something bigger—damned nosy OCRA agents—he’s not aware of any noticeable traps just yet.

Kevin shoulders his bag, oblivious. “Oh, cool. Did he play exy, by chance?”

“Rugby, actually,” Neil says. Andrew scoffs but Neil doesn’t know what for. Before he can ask of it, Andrew turns to Kevin. “Ready, dear?”

Kevin flushes. “Uh, yeah.” He looks at Neil. “So, we good for Wednesday, yeah? Pronouns and parsing?” At Neil’s nod, Kevin presses his luck. “And Friday…Party?”

Andrew huffs a ring of smoke from his mouth. “Pronouns, parsing, and partying, oh my,” he mutters. But, to Neil’s surprise and Kevin’s satisfaction, he doesn’t protest Kevin’s invitation to Neil.

“I—“ Neil means to say _I’ll think about it_ , but one more glance at Kevin’s crown of hopeful thorns and Andrew’s challenging scrutiny has Neil surrendering. If this goes down in flames, at least Neil can say he tried his best. Really, he did.

“Awesome.” Kevin smiles and takes half a step forward before stopping, grin faltering. It barely takes a second for Neil to realize that Kevin has become trapped in the primordial uncertainty of not knowing whether to hug farewell or awkwardly wave adieu. Neil decides to end his suffering quickly and meets Kevin halfway, embracing the taller man in a hug.

Immediately, Kevin’s arms wrap around Neil’s shoulder. Tight enough to feel touched and secured, but loose enough not to feel trapped. That self-destructive part of Neil almost yearns for the latter. Maybe that’s why Andrew calls him fox. Was he fated to be captured, after all?

When Kevin pulls away, Neil bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood so as not to release the whimper knocking against his teeth at the loss. Andrew’s eyes glint, murderously amused, as if he knows the internal battle Neil wages.

“I’m not hugging you,” Andrew offers sweetly.

“Understood,” Neil says. He can almost taste the nicotine on Andrew’s lips when Andrew tongues the cigarette, or maybe that’s just his imagination. Andrew slips his hand into the crook of Kevin’s arm and gives Neil one last once over. Neil swallows at the heavy gaze.

“And do tell dear Uncle Stu hello for me,” Andrew says, words dripping with insincerity. “I’m sure he must be so proud to see his nephew thriving at such a prestigious Academy.”

Kevin mutters something indecipherable to Andrew but allows himself to be led away, offering one last wave over his shoulder to Neil. Neil is so fixated on the forms dipping over the hill and out of sight, his two magnets stretched farther away from him, to notice the traps he’s fallen into.

He’s so distracted he doesn’t see Oremor still watching him from his perch by the camellia rows.

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice Nevix walk down the trail and pause to asses him, before continuing on, arm and arm with a lovesick Minyard doppelgänger.

He’s so _utterly_ distracted that he doesn’t think to be alarmed by Andrew mentioning Stuart, Neil forgetting that he never once told Andrew what his uncle’s name was.

VII.

The door hasn’t fully slammed shut before Andrew pushes Kevin towards his bed, a growl emanating from his throat. _“Oiu ou non,_ Kevin? _”_

“I fucking love when you speak French,” Kevin groans and falls backwards onto the pristine bedsheets. Andrew always makes his bed in the morning for some inane reason. It’s especially unnecessary considering how frequently they disturb the setting, but oh well. “ _Baise-moi_ , _oh mon dieu.”_

Andrew shrugs out of his coat and watches with heavy eyes as Kevin eagerly strips himself. “God won’t fuck you, but I’ll do my best.” To be honest, he’s not entirely sure what inspired his sudden passion. Plato's irrational appetites, aptly named. Maybe it was his talk with Renee, and the constant reminder that Kevin is _his_. His to protect, his to safeguard, his to herald. Maybe its the conflicting emotions that’s only increased every time he’s come within a hundred yards of Neil.

Maybe it’s just the animal in him that never fully evolved when the gods cursed him with desire. The words of Hughes intercept Andrew’s conscience—

_Desire to us_

_Was like a double death,_

_Swift dying_

_Of our mingled breath,_

—pushing him closer to Kevin. Inevitable, always inevitable.

Whatever the case:

“Answer me, darling,” Andrew says. He helps Kevin unlace his boots before flinging both haphazardly across the dorm room. Aaron won’t be back from class for at least another hour if he knows what’s good for him.

“What?” Kevin smirks. “Since when does ‘fuck me’ not answer your question? I don’t know how to make myself any more clear.” He leans up on his elbows from where he lays half naked on the sheets. It’s a tantalizing sight that has Andrew remembering that _want_ is a weakness. He’s not quite sure just when this golden Adonis become his Achilles’ heel. He’s also not sure if he still has the strength to refuse it, or if he ever had the power in the first place.

Maybe he was doomed from the start, like all mortal men.

“Yes,” Andrew says, ignoring Kevin’s amused eye roll, “or no.” He leans over the bed and straddles Kevin’s thighs, still frustratingly covered in his slacks. “That’s how you can make yourself clear.”

“Yes, Andrew,” Kevin says. His voice dips softer when he leans up to accept Andrew’s blazing kiss, a moan intermingling with another affirmative when Andrew’s tongue teases his lips before licking into his mouth. He tastes of smoke and honey, a lethal love. “Yes, fuck’s sake, you know it’s yes—“

Verbal consent serving like a fuel to an engine, Andrew’s hands kick into action and hurriedly grab at Kevin’s pants, unzipping and pulling them down Kevin’s long legs in one swift motion. Kevin sympathizes with Andrew’s impatience. He leans over and pulls open the bedside drawer to retrieve a bottle of lube and a condom while Andrew shucks both their pants away to lay with their discarded shoes.

“Lift your hips for me, _mon cher_.”

Kevin lets Andrew undress the rest of him and push a pillow under his ass, hands grasping desperately at the sheets. His thighs tremble in anticipation but when Andrew begins peppering slow kisses from Kevin’s inner thigh up his chest, his breathing hitches for an entirely different reason.

Andrew isn’t the most tender lover, but he’s the most sincere, and Kevin will protect this privilege with his life.

“Can I—Can I touch you?” Kevin asks, voice straining when Andrew starts to jack him off along with his careful worship of Kevin’s body. Andrew’s teeth slowly working a hickey under Kevin’s right nipple coupled with his hand stroking mercilessly up Kevin’s cock is almost overwhelming, and they’ve barely just begun. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, ‘Drew.”

Andrew pauses in his ministrations to deliver a firm _no_ before going back to his work. The negative is not out of denial but temperance. Andrew loves seeing Kevin squirm under him, tetherless and growing desperate as the need to connect wears on. His tongue laps at the marks he’s dotting along Kevin’s chest like a brand and Kevin can’t find it in himself to care. Let him be marked. Let him be claimed. This is an entirely different sort of possession compared to what Kevin was once subjected to and the contrast in circumstances is glorious.

For starters, he _wants_ this. More than any tortuous touch the Family once inflicted on him. He no longer has to restrain his desires, his wants, his needs when he’s in Andrew’s care. Besides, those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained. Their's, however, is not.

Weakness is a two way street, after all.

“Andrew—“

He twists Kevin’s nipples with deft fingers, eyes alighting at the way Kevin arches his back with a shaky gasp at the touch.

_“Que veux-tu ma reine?”_

“You.” Oh, Kevin _adores_ it when Andrew speaks to him like that. “Oh, God—you, Andrew.”

From the depths of his nonsensicality, a part of Kevin wonders if Andrew would speak so warmly to Neil. He can imagine Neil’s face, lit up like strawberry candles under Andrew’s glow. He thinks of the scars and softness in Neil’s hands enveloped in Kevin’s own, the knots in Neil’s chest just begging to be soothed. Maybe Kevin is going insane, after all. But he can’t get the image out of his mind of Neil between he and Andrew. Not separating them, but uniting. Joining. Completing.

“Andrew, I need you,” Kevin murmurs. _“J'ai besoin de vous.”_

Andrew hums. His voice is flat when he says, “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you that patience is a virtue,” but his flushed skin gives his affectation away.

“What would you know about virtue?” Kevin laughs. The sound makes Andrew’s heart burn, and stutters when Kevin’s blue eyes peer up at him, amused in their near pleading.

Except Kevin doesn’t have blue eyes.

“‘Drew?” Kevin’s brow crinkles at Andrew’s expression. “What is it?”

Andrew blinks and the color fades, familiar juniper returning.

“Idiot,” Andrew says without heat. He gently pushes Kevin back down, propping himself up on one arm to lean over Kevin and capture their lips together. Kevin submits beautifully to the onslaught, parting his lips and legs simultaneously for Andrew to slide closer. He needs Andrew—He needs him everywhere, and Kevin was a fool to once think he could resist Andrew for long.

“Will you fuck me?” Kevin whispers. He trembles under Andrew, wondering if he’d be so lucky to one day collapse unravelled like this before him. A heavenly way to die.

Lethal love. But so damn pure.

“Yes,” Andrew promises, nipping at the skin under Kevin’s jaw. He takes his time prepping Kevin, his jaw aching as he continues to hide the smile at Kevin becoming more desperate under him. Seeing his hands clench fruitlessly at the sheets, Andrew finally has mercy and allows Kevin to touch: his arms, his neck, his still clothed chest. Kevin sighs happily when his hands find purchase, find home.

When Andrew finally works a third finger into Kevin, he can’t hold back a small self-satisfied grin at Kevin’s low moans increasing in volume. “Not everyone’s in class, dear,” Andrew reminds him. “You might want to keep it down.”

“Your neighbors had an orgy last week,” Kevin points out between shallow breaths while Andrew fingers him. “I think—oh, fuck—I think I’ll be fine.”

“Not an orgy,” Andrew says just to be contrary. He licks a bead of sweat from Kevin’s neck, huffing at the shudder that goes through Kevin’s body. “Bacchanal. They get pissed when you call it otherwise.”

“Hey, ‘Drew,” Kevin groans. “Don’t say fancy words during sex. It’s not allowed.”

Andrew pulls his fingers out of Kevin’s ass, smirking at the whimper that elicits. “I thought knowledge was your foreplay. You get off on it.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Kevin says with part laugh, part gasp. He bucks his hips up in want, muscles twitching beautifully. Which is really just unfair, if Andrew’s being honest. No one should be allowed to look so delectable.

“No,” Andrew decides. “I’m fucking you.”

Kevin’s laugh dissipates when Andrew rolls the condom on and positions his lubed cock teasingly on Kevin’s rim. It doesn’t take long before Andrew pushes until he’s fully seated inside, and by then, Kevin’s lungs are barely functioning enough to maintain breath.

With the bare traces of light escaping through the window curtain, painting a contrast of highlights and shadows on Andrew’s face and shoulders as he slowly fucks into Kevin, Kevin finally understands what it means to have one’s breath stolen. Eros has surely robbed him of all air, only to be replaced with unfiltered adoration for the man surrounding him.

_I’d worship you despite the odds._

When Kevin nods his head, arms looped around Andrew’s neck like a lifeline, Andrew takes the cue to move. He rolls his hips, thrusting into Kevin’s body. The pain of being stretched is ever present, but the pleasure bubbling through Kevin outweighs the discomfort tenfold. It’s not pure calm or bliss; it's a match thrown at oil, it's blood against bone, it’s a phoenix and a storm—it’s so much better than petty words.

Love isn’t soft, like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.

Kevin thinks that it’s a noble sacrifice to bear.

“I— _Oh, fuck_.“

He wants to speak. He wants to let Andrew know how good it is, to reassure Andrew that he loves Andrew inside him, ripping him open, making him new. It’s reincarnation, a euphoric resurrection.

Andrew likes hearing such things, even if he’ll never say. Knowing that what he’s doing is not only wanted, but rapturous.

But Kevin can’t form the words to do so as Andrew continues to unravel his very being. Thighs shaking, breaths mingling, lips pulsing over his own. Heat and fire kindling in Kevin’s heart along with his skin. He finds it funny when he’s suddenly reminded of the stark contrast in Andrew and Neil’s touch—one so warm it could set worlds alight, the other so cold it would freeze hell. Opposite extremes, and Kevin’s victim to both.

“God, Andrew,” he moans.

“God’s not here,” Andrew corrects, lips swollen against Kevin’s neck as he continues to fuck into him.

“Oh, but you are.” _And that's an infinite more miracles better._

Kevin moves one of his hands to touch himself but Andrew intercepts it with embers in his eyes.

“‘Drew, I—“

“No.” Andrew angles his hips to pound Kevin’s prostate in a way that forces Kevin to shove his face into a pillow and choke back a scream. Andrew leans down and claims Kevin’s lips in his, swallowing back every lovely sob and moan. This love is a torture that Kevin never wants to escape. His whole body throbs and as Andrew brings him closer to oblivion, all else slips away. Time and space is nonexistent, and maybe this is what the Catholics meant when they said heaven is a state of being with God. He’s never felt so connected, so united with another person. Existence itself is all consuming.

Because it’s not about the sex, it’s about the dam bursting and the floodgates unleashing and Andrew shining like a dying star for Kevin to follow home in the night. There’s something else—some _one,_ some truth, some inevitability—nagging at both their psyche’s. For now it’s a shadow neither are ready to put a name to, but they’re just as aware of its presence as they are of each other. There's a ghost, a possibility, a suggestion in the room with them and neither have the strength to ignore it. They don't think they want to, either.

The world doesn’t end when Kevin’s orgasm hits, but it’s damn near close.

Andrew follows along soon after. His body serves as overstimulation for Kevin’s and the latter accepts it all as Andrew comes, shoulders shaking and lips parting against Kevin’s skin. The earth and her side effects come back into orbit by the time Andrew pulls out and wipes Kevin down. They don’t speak; there’s nothing to be said. Relief and understanding is not always vocal.

There’s something more, though. Something they’re not saying. Kevin curls up under Andrew’s duvet as Andrew rolls out of bed, hands already reaching for a cigarette. He doesn’t mind, Andrew will return to him eventually.

The light is beginning to fade outside. It casts shadows throughout the room, highlighting Andrew's pale form in a Noir rendition. Through the afterglow, the unbidden image of strawberry candles comes to Kevin's mind. The pillow underneath his head is soft and he’s not unaware of the reeling thoughts going through Andrew’s head as he flicks open the lighter.

Andrew meets Kevin’s eyes from across the room and walks back over. He leans down and places a soft kiss on Kevin’s cheeks: first his right, then his left, lips hovering over Kevin’s scars. Kevin smiles sadly, but not for Andrew's sake. For the missing person who should have been there as well.

The world doesn’t end but they both know it’s not far away.

They just don’t want to admit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let Andrew use terms of endearment 2k20
> 
> Information on the asphodels taken from Missouri Botanical Garden's website.  
> The lesson Kevin is giving Neil is actually one my third year philosophy teacher gave us on Michel Foucault, the Beat Generation, among other 20th century writers and theorists. Problematic dudes with silver tongued talent. It's wack.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Que la chasse commence, Let the hunt begin  
> брат, brother  
> Bien sûr que oui, Yes, of course.  
> Oui ou non? Yes or no?  
> Baise-moi, oh mon dieu, Fuck me, oh my god.  
> Que veux-tu ma reine? What do you want, my queen?  
> J'ai besoin de vous, I need you.  
> Citations:  
> Line reference to The Secret History by Donna Tartt  
> Line reference to John 15:18 in the Bible  
> Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai découvert en moi un invincible été, quote by Albert Camus meaning, In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer  
> Stanza reference to Desire by Langston Hughes  
> Line reference to William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell  
> Line reference to Stephen King's The Body


	14. There's a Bluebird in My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter trailer for titwtwe's part ii
> 
> A bluebird is a symbol of peace and joy and happiness. What walls must we tear down to rescue the bluebird that lives inside us all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to the lovely birl (@justwhatialwayswanted on ao3) for beta-ing this and being just an awesome human being all around <33

I.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart._

Neil checks his inbox from the encrypted files one last time. He should be asleep, but his mind won’t rest. He reads the latest message, heart clenching. Ichirou wants to discuss what progress Neil has made. With Kevin. With Andrew. With selling his very soul to the devil himself.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s the end, it’s the end, the end is coming—

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out._

A dry sob chokes out of him as he hurls the laptop at the wall, screen shattering on impact. But the monitor’s light stays steady. Stubborn. Taunting.

Neil screams.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out—But I’m too tough for him._

The bedroom mirror to Neil’s right reflects his despair. His crumpling will. Momma told him to be strong but she never said forever. Neil can’t go on like this forever. Who is in control of his life? The stars, The Family, the blades of grass that cut like knives against his running heels? Whoever—whatever it is, it’s certainly not himself. 

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out—But I’m too tough for him. I say,_

_“Stay in there. I’m not going to let anybody see you.”_

Neil falls to his knees. There are tears on his face he doesn’t remember shedding but it doesn’t matter: no one will know. No one will ever know who Neil Josten truly is because this world was not made for him. The world was made for the liars and the lied, the back alley empires and the two-toned puppet men. 

He watches the light from the monitor shut off, the message still unanswered. But the damage is done. Neil has a call to make, a lie to deliver, an inevitability to avoid until he can run from it no more.

Neil cries, _“I’m not going to let anybody hurt you.”_

II.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart._

Andrew hums around his cigarette as he descends the marble staircase down to the Commons. His skin itches and his throat is dry but he carries on, a sinking boat against the currents. He’d murder a man for a drink at the second. His wallet is empty.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out._

Andrew’s eyes are blurry. It makes walking hard. Who said eyes are the windows to the soul? Andrew sighs to himself, thinking. Musing. Like the moment before Kevin cries: his eyes get all glassy and bright. Isn’t that the irony? A fragile house but so damn strong. Persevering. A survivor.

Neil’s eyes, though. That’s another matter. So cold and alert. But just begging for warmth. Andrew can’t stop watching them watch Kevin watch him.

Andrew wonders what his eyes would look like if he’d never poisoned himself on Dust. Would they one day stay black, a permanent stain? How—

His feet slip on the marble as he descends. Out and under, he tumbles. He lets himself fall, silk skidding on the steps. 

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out. But I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke._

There’s laughter and there’s fumes and there’s way too many people in this room. Wasn’t Andrew on the stairs? He doesn’t know how he got here. Wherever here is. Fucking Dust. His head pounds along with the music.

He really needs to take a vacation one of these days.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out. But I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke._

_And the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he’s in there._

The Commons. That’s where Andrew is. It must be a party, but Andrew doesn’t remember there being a party tonight. Too much Dust, too much fucking Dust. 

A cleaning lady passes him and Andrew laughs. What’s the janitor doing down here? She glares at him as she pushes by but is quickly absorbed into the crowd of students. Andrew fades into them too, just another fish struggling in the net. He almost feels normal for the first time in his life. High and drugged, lonely and lost. Just like every goddamn person in this room.

He wants to find Kevin. He wonders where Neil is. He thinks he’s going insane and he curses OCRA for being so damn desperate for field agents that they chose him of all people. 

Andrew says, _“Nobody knows that I’m in here,”_ and the crowd roars.

III.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart._

Another page, another line, another stanza. Kevin’s falling behind in his studies. Another sip, another click, another lightbulb. He spills his coffee on the page and groans.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out._

Andrew’s curled up on the library couch across from him, lost in a dream. Kevin pauses in his writing to smile softly at the man. He looks just as lethal in sleep, and Kevin adores him. His heart rattles for a moment before Kevin returns to his coffee-stained page, pushing on.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out. But I’m too clever—_

_I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep._

There’s a song Kevin’s mother used to sing around the house. He barely remembers the words, but he hums the melody as his pen scribbles across the page. There’s movement behind Kevin but he ignores it for now. Witherspear is near empty this time of night, save for the fallen few. 

Kevin is tired, but he’s determined. One more paragraph, one more goal. Andrew mutters something in his sleep, something…okra? Kevin chuckles. Andrew hates vegetables.

_There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out. But I’m too clever—_

_I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep._

_I say, "I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad."_

More movement from the back. Kevin flips a page in his textbook. The table lamp flickers. He should switch to studying his lines for _Antigone_ soon. But he needs more coffee.

Andrew shifts in his sleep. The humming stops. 

Kevin says, “I know that you’re there. You don’t have to hide.”

Neil smiles sadly from where he stands behind the table.

Andrew wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem repeated throughout is Bluebird by Charles Bukowski. I highly recommend reading the entire work. 
> 
> Thank you all for your support thus far <33 I appreciate you all so, so much. [I originally believed we’d resume on August 16, but due to a sudden change in life’s circumstances, the next part is tba. But it is absolutely coming!] Feel free to scream at me on tumblr @ravens-play-exy-too


	15. You've Been Drinking Like the World Was Gonna End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memory; a milestone; a manifesto. Nothing new under the sun, and yet so damn catastrophic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO HI SORRY FOR THE LONG ASS WAIT. LIFE IS WACK, I HOPE U ENJOY THE UPDATE. this was originally supposed to be double the length but i decided to break the next piece off in multiple chapters because STUFF IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN!!! okay thank u for reading and i eat up comments like fucking crack so go ham if you want <33 this chapter is NOT beta'd so apologies in advance for typos i really just wanted to get this out to you all.
> 
> cw’s for chapter: drunkeness, alcohol poisoning, violence towards one’s hand (self-inflicted). as always, please lmk if anything else should be tagged.

I.

Memory is more lethal than moment.

That’s the conclusion Matthew Boyd has accepted as he stares through the glass prison that holds a past life hostage.

Everybody thinks about the witnesses during a trial. Everybody questions the bystander at the crime scene. So why doesn’t anyone ever consider what Matt saw all those lives ago?

( _Because they didn’t know,_ a voice says. _No one ever knows.)_

The faces behind the glass stare back at Matt, unblinking. Temporary moments and frozen breaths immortalized in pixilated eternity. A smile here, a lie there. The boy in the first frame owned the first, lived the latter. Now, a million breaths later, he’s dead. And Matt no longer knows how to feel about that, which is a problem in itself.

Unlike what the pictures would have you believe, Seth didn’t smile so much. He used to, months before _it_ happened. But not near the end. Seth’s smile had been a rare occurrence, but no doubt a memorable one. There’s really no other way to put it.

That smile could have started wars.

It could have ended them just as quick.

Matt stares at one of the photos of Seth trapped within the glass casing on the memorial board set up in the main theater’s lobby. Flowers once laid out _in memorium_ are all gone, dead and discarded. But the pictures, the handwritten notes, words and messages that will never reach the intended target, live on.

But this one particular photo—that’s the eye-catcher. A grin of the battle born reflects back into Matt’s eyes and he pretends that the familiar sight doesn’t rattle his core. Unfortunately, Matt isn’t the convincing actor his undearly departed friend once was.

He remembers the night this picture was taken with sickening clarity. Of all the things to remember: always the grim, the bad, and the dirty. In the picture, Seth’s arms are thrown around two of his cast mates shoulders, a snapshot from the theater department’s semester kickoff party at the beginning of the year. The same party Matt had refused to attend despite Seth’s and Kevin’s invite. He doesn’t even remember the reason he’d been so adamant about avoiding the event. He just simply. hadn’t. gone.

Had that been Matt’s first mistake? His second, his third, his millionth wrong choice? Had what happened even been Matt’s fault at all?

( _I don’t know_ , the voice says. _And I’ll never know.)_

Only one person—the man, the mourned, the memory of that sunken shadow—could offer such a reprieve.

But memories don’t talk, and this is no exception.

_Memento mori._

_Remember you must die._

Memories don’t talk, but they goddamn well warn. You can’t say that you weren’t aware of the end, the inevitable, in advance at least.

 _Memento mori._ Seth knew this. Seth remembered. Matt wondered if, maybe, in the end, Seth just stopped caring.

Matt’s never been a Stoic but how do you find an adequate response to such a mess? It’s just so damn easy to accept and absorb and stop caring so much all the time.

Matt thinks he’s beginning to understand how Seth must have felt, and he doesn’t have a response for that either.

The picture grins at Matt, and Matt closes his eyes.

_“Can you hear me, Matty? One, two, three, ready or not, here I come.”_

Memento mori. Lethal memories.

_“Matt, did you hear me? I’m here. Open the door, damn it.”_

Alive in one breath, dead the next. It’s all the same when viewed a lifetime away. Not even a ripple in the history of everything.

What’s it called? Theory of Relativity.

_“Come on, sweetheart. Won’t you let me in? I need to tell you about my night.”_

Matt, born from a dynasty of blood and terror—though he hadn’t quite inherited all the bloodlust—isn’t one you would sanely reckon to call ‘sweetheart’. In that moment, Matt surprised himself with the surge of violent rage that washed over him when Seth came a’knocking at the door all those months ago. Not towards Seth, but towards the stale air, the dusty floorboards, the cracked dorm wall in desperate need of a refurbishing. Towards the world and her woes. Towards what Matt knew and what he knew he couldn’t stop.

Matt still has nightmares about that night. Which is pretty damn unfair, considering the source is six feet under.

Matt opens his eyes, but he doesn’t see the hall he’s standing in, nor the memorial in front of him, nor even the picture damn near burned into his mind. All he sees is Seth’s expression when Matt had swung the dorm room door open that late August evening after Seth came back from the party.

He sees Seth’s fear.

“Matty?” Seth had stumbled back, whether from the alcohol muddling his nerves or the instant reaction of coming face to face with an earthquake of a man, who knew. Matt sure didn’t, and he regrets putting that expression on his friend’s face just as much as he regretted it in the moment.

“Come back when you’re sober, Gordon.” Matt had tried to calm his voice, to flatten it past any trace of malice. Or cruelty. It didn’t take any extra brain cells to know it was useless, if Seth’s involuntary flinch was any indication.

But the response, the lie, is what really set off Matt:

“‘m not drunk. Just wanna talk.” Seth gestured between them, a half drunk bottle in his moving hand. He disguised his previous unsettlement with a smirk and though he no longer looked ready to flee, it didn’t do much for Matt. It would have been better if Seth _had_ run. “Can you move? It’s cold out here. Just let me in. _Pleaaaaassse_ —”

The room was technically both his and Seth’s, by nature of being roommates, but Seth knew the rules. Matt didn’t sleep in the same room as drunks, and most certainly not with. And there was no way in hell Matt would be able to stomach another night so close to Seth, so raw. Not with what Matt knew. Not with what Matt couldn’t stop.

 _They’re going to kill you_ , Matt wanted to say. No—scream. He wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs until his vocal chords snapped and his chest burned and his throat started to bleed. _They’re going to kill you and you have no idea because you’re too busy drinking like the world’s gonna end_.

Seth wouldn’t even remember it come morning. And if Matt opened his mouth, if he attempted any warning for his friend, they’d both get a bullet in the head. The Family was always watching.

Matt had never known anger like he had in that moment. Seth wasn’t a good person by many accounts, but he wasn’t cattle to be cut and strung out either. He didn’t deserve to be treated how The Family treated him.

 _They own us all,_ Matt wanted to say. There were so many things he wanted to say. _They own me and they own you. And now they’re going to kill you and neither of us can stop that._

In the end, The Family didn’t kill Seth. They planned to, but someone else got there first _._ Only three people know this secret, and one of them is dead. The other two? Well.

What he said instead was, “Go away, G. I can’t do this right now.”

It was the most pathetic thing Matt had ever said, and _that_ was saying something. So he didn’t quite blame the punch to his chest that followed.

“Fuck you,” Seth spat. But he was drunk and he always slurred when he’d had too much so it sounded equally weak. Exy and whatever hell bent training the Family once allowed him had given Gordon muscles but his fist had nothing on Matt’s chest. Where the limb connected burned like a bitch, sure, but that was unimportant. Matt simply glared at Seth and hoped that would be enough. He wouldn’t fight back; not this time. Seth liked it rough: whether it be his sex, or his whiskey, or his taste in company—rough practically described Seth’s goddamn life.

But Matt figured Seth’s death would be harsh enough and so he stepped back, guilt tearing at his heartstrings and shame eating at his bones.

This—the pain, the anger, the helplessness, the _grief_ —is what he thinks it’s like to be human. _Memento mori._ And Matt had never felt so mortal.

“First you wouldn’t come to my party,” Seth continued, voice raising. The open bottle shook in his hand, liquid sloshing messily and onto the floor. The cleaners were going to be pissed. “And now you—you won’t even let me in to my own room. How’s that, asshole?”

Matt almost wanted to correct with, “Not _your_ party,” but he chose his battles carefully. Unlike Seth. “You know the rules, Seth,” Matt growled instead. His voice was several decibels lower, but just as sharp.

When had they become so brittle? Was it before Matt discovered his benefactor’s decision, the death sentence The Family decided for Seth? Was it after, when the guilt ate away all of Matt’s resolve, no trace left to handle his friend with care—the friend who’d soon just be another retired investment?

_I don’t want to have to bury another friend._

It was just so goddamn easy to push and to hurt than to love and to break. Matt was just as much a product of his environment as Seth was of his, after all.

“I don’t give a damn about your rules,” Seth seethed. He turned as if to leave but Matt wasn’t born yesterday and he saw the fist flying at him again before Seth’s arm even moved. Another version of Matt wanted to break the hand he held under him, knuckles curling around Seth’s shaking, inebriated fingers. In another life, he might not have hesitated to do so. To be cruel. To be predictable. To be human. But this life was yet another mystery, and Matt miraculously didn’t give in to the urge.

Even in his drunken state, Seth seemed surprise when Matt let go, only pushing Gordon away from the door with the same amount of brutal care Matt could never truly retire of.

“Where’m I supposed to go?” Seth demanded.

Matt shrugged. “I don’t care. Allison. The streets. The damn moon; just get out of here.”

Seth wrinkled his nose at the mention of his on-and-off-again girlfriend’s name. They had been in the off stage at that point in time, but it wouldn’t last. That was yet another reason Matt was tired of surrendering to Seth’s temporary advances, for they were just that—temporary. Even Kevin had no idea of the extra, opaque layer to Matt and Seth’s relationship.

And Kevin would never know, now.

“You always push me away,” Seth said quietly. It didn’t sound sad or pathetic or any such tone. It was just uttered as a statement, a mere fact of life. “Everyone’s always pushing me away.”

 _Push. Push. Push_.

Blood on the tongue.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that, Seth,” is all Matt could say in response. He hated himself for it and there was no taking it back.

There never was salvation for sinners.

“You think?” Seth asked. He peered at Matt, eyes unfocused. Unlike moments before, Matt didn’t expect what happened next. Though, to be honest, he should have. One second Seth was before him, face twisted. The next, their lips were together, bodies colliding like shrapnel on skin. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, despite its familiarness. It was savage, self-inflicted sadism. In the same moment Matt went to push Seth off of him, Seth’s hand shot out, smashing his bottle into the wall next to their bodies. Blood and glass and alcohol erupted from the epicenter and Matt near tasted it all in his mouth. It tasted like Seth, and it made Matt furious.

“Fuck you—I said, _go away_.”

Matt could be so, so sweet. He wasn’t sure if it was an anomaly or a curse, considering the world he grew up in. The Family recruited him for a reason, after all, along with Seth. Only they knew of each other’s position within the Clan, the secrets they kept strapped to their chests right along with their weapons. Maybe that was why they got along—to an extent. They understood each other. Perhaps, in another life, one where they weren’t owned by an international mafia, Seth and Matt could have been something more. Not romantically, nothing so domestic. But something substantial. Something right.

But _this_ is their life, and dreams are nothing but hallucinated air.

Seth and he had their better days, their honey phases. But you can’t outrun nature, and even honey sours over time. Quite simply, Matt and Seth were no different from the rest of the damned.

While the flying shards had hit Matt as well (a piece or two finding its way into Matt’s cheek, a cut or three splitting the base of his chin), Matt was too distracted by the chaos in front of him to care. Seth flexed his ruined hand, bits of glass protruding from the palm and spine at odd angles. Never mind the cuts, the alcohol from the bottle running over the wounds must have felt like damnation. Tears ran instinctively down his face, but Seth gave no indication that he even noticed the salt drops existence. It was more an automatic, unstoppable reaction than an emotional one.

“My hand hurts,” Seth said lightly as if he were commenting on Matt’s new haircut. And then he fell over, shoulders shaking and halfway dead.

Turns out, alcohol poisoning is a fucking bitch.

Seth didn’t talk to Matt again after that night. He didn’t even come back to the dorm, and Matt only heard rumors of who’s bed Seth slept in each night. (It was mostly Allison’s, but even she had her limits.)

If Matt had known their exchange in the hall was the last time he’d be with Seth alive, he would have done so many things different. Maybe he would have kissed Seth back. Maybe he would have returned the punch. Maybe he would have warned Seth of the executions that The Family planned with Seth and Kevin and Riko before it was too late.

(It had always been too late.)

His list of what if’s ran long, and Matt feared Seth would always be his greatest. He still wondered what Seth had so desperately wanted to tell Matt that night. Even if it was the stupidest, most inane comment about the drinks Seth had downed, Matt thinks he would kill a man if it meant being able to know.

Seth died barely two weeks later. Everyone knows the story. Everyone knows the outcome.

But Matt didn’t expect it to end like this.

II.

The sound of feet shuffling on slicked tile draws Matt’s attention from the memorial board. He looks to his left, blinking away sharp memories, and sees none other than Mystery Boy exiting the main theater’s doors.

Mystery Boy. What a ridiculous name. As if Neil— _Nathaniel Hatford_ , as Matt thinks he’ll always see him as—could even be contained within such a temporal label. They hadn’t met each other before Fox, but Matt isn’t dumb. He pays attention to his benefactors, The Family. And, maybe more importantly, their investments.

Neil is more than a mystery. He’s an enigma, an unknown variable, an invaluable secret.

Neil is, at the root of it all, catastrophic.

And Matt knows something has to be done about that.

“When did you start taking classes here?” Matt asks him.

Nath—Neil grins at Matt on his way past, a fraying coat adorning the slight shrug of the shoulders he offers. “I don’t,” he says simply, and continues out the lobby. Matt squints in thought at the answer.

When Neil is out the door, no more than a lick of air to signify his past presence, Matt glances at his watch. He decides he’ll give Kevin a few more minutes to wrap up. Day’s class should be ending soon and they have exy practice to get to. Matt needs—

The door to the right side exit opens and another person steps out. Gunmetal cambric and leather slacks—an outrageous combination, even for Matt—greets him before Matt sees its owner’s face. Andrew-godfearing-Minyard. As in, who God fears.

“You taking class here, too?” Matt wonders. Kevin didn’t mention having theater with his boyfriend.

Andrew doesn’t spare Matt a glance when he says, “No,” and departs the lobby.

Matt’s eye twitches.

The front door swings shut.

“Okay,” Matt says to no one. “Great chat.”

“Hey.” Matt turns for a third time to find Kevin assessing him with amusement. “Talking to yourself?”

“Fuck off,” Matt grins. “Hey. Since when were your boys taking classes here?”

Kevin only barely manages not to stumble as he walks over to Matt, bag slinging over his shoulders. “My— _what_?”

“Andrew. Neil. They were just here.” Matt gestures towards the front doors. “Left a minute apart, if that.”

Kevin cocks his head in the direction of Matt’s pointing thumb. He frowns. “They’re not, um. Don’t call them that—“

“But it’s true.” Matt shrugs.

“—and they don’t have class here. Are you sure?”

“Of?”

“That you saw them?”

Matt blinks. “Oh, sorry. That must’ve been buff Draco Malfoy and his sidekick, Scabbers. My bad.”

Kevin scoffs and elbows Matt in the side. “Shut up.” Matt laughs.

Kevin opens his mouth to say something else (along the lines of: “Scabbers? _Really?_ ”) but hesitates at the last second. Matt watches the way Kevin’s gaze trails distractedly to the memorial board behind Matt’s head. The light in Kevin’s eyes dim slightly when they make contact with the pictures, memories he’s forced to pass every week. Kevin was just as much friends with Seth as Matt had been. That is, to say, a relationship of contradiction: moments spent laughing and joking and existing, others spent raging and warring and, at the root, faking it all. Seth and his secrets, Matt and his mysteries, Kevin and his calamities. A relationship dead and gone, but suspended—immortalized—in emotional grief.

But Kevin’s not here to linger. He doesn’t usually stop to do so on his way in and out of class, and today is no different. Matt can almost _see_ the exact moment Kevin decides to tear his gaze away and back to Matt.

“You good?” Matt asks.

“‘Course,” Kevin says.

A pause.

Then:

“You ready?” Kevin asks.

“Ready,” Matt repeats.

One’s an actor, but they’re both lying.

Only the memories bear witness.

III.

“Where is the virtue found in slaughter?”

It’s after Kevin’s practice, and a few hours before Neil is getting dragged to his first Foxborough party. He’s still not exactly sure how he got persuaded into going, seeing as a “party” goes against everything Neil has been raised to allow for himself. Maybe it was Kevin’s hand on his arm, lips twisted in that teasing way when he asked Neil to come. Maybe it was the challenge in Andrew’s eyes, the setback of his shoulders awaiting Neil’s verdict as if maybe—just the _nth_ of a possibility _maybe_ —he hoped Neil would say yes. Maybe it was Neil’s ever growing want, desire to live and breathe and exist in the same space as these two circling stars before his time is up that had him sighing the words, “ _Fine_.”

Or maybe Neil’s just a fucking masochist and enjoys getting himself hurt, one way or the other.

Whatever the case, Kevin is adamant that Neil get an A on his next oral, even if it kills him (the owner of such _him_ is unclear, and Neil suspects it might be more accurate to say _both_ of them), so they’re studying yet again outside Scavenger’s Field instead of resting. Or, in Andrew’s preference, sleeping his ass off before the night starts.

Before they began, Kevin had a different sort of question. What Matt had said to him after class had bothered him all practice, and he was lucky to have scored the three goals he did during the team’s scrimmage with how his thoughts kept straying. So after a frustrating (concerning) amount of time trying to drag out the truth from Andrew and Neil if they both had been at the theater earlier that day—

(“No,” Andrew had said, “I wasn’t there.”

“Me neither,” Neil added. “I had class in the Humanities then.”

“No,” Andrew interjected, “he didn’t.”

“How would you know that?” Neil had elbowed Andrew. “Were you spying on me _and_ Kevin?”

Andrew threw him an unamused glare. “Kevin and _I_.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“It is ironic,” Andrew continued, completely ignoring Kevin’s background attempts to steer the conversation back to the point, “that you’re one to talk of spying.”

Neil blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr-I-watch-Kevin’s-practices-every-day-from-the-balcony-instead-of-just-attending-an-actual-fucking-production?”

Andrew rubbed his jaw. “Your voice annoys me.”

“Most people like my voice.”

“Wrong does not cease to be wrong because the majority share in it.”

Neil scoffed, but his laugh was a lovely bubble. “Oh, fuck _off._ ”

“ _So_ ,” Kevin gestured desperately between them, “was that a yes or a no?”

“No,” Andrew repeated.

“I don’t understand the question,” Neil said at the same time.

Kevin huffed. “You’re both terrible liars.”

Andrew had just yawned. “Don’t get presumptuous, dear.”)

—Kevin got his (sort of? strange? slightly flattering?) answer and he decided not to press the issue further, instead finally moving on to getting work done.

And by _work_ , it’s more like Neil complaining about each new Enlightenment ("Fuck-my-life-enment,” corrected Neil) thought experiment he’s supposed to review. Needless to say, tutoring Neil is a fucking _challenge_ , and not for the mild hearted.

“Where is the virtue found in slaughter?” Kevin asks again, reading from Neil’s notes.

Neil groans into where he lays his head against his crossed arms in the grass. He mumbles a curse in response to Kevin’s French askance and the latter laughs, repeating the question for a third time.

“ _Chais pas,_ ” Neil says. “And I don’t care. It’s—” he sits up and delivers an emphatic wave of his hand. “Slaughter is the opposite of virtue. There’s no positive relation.”

Andrew grunts from where he lays propped up on his elbow a couple meters away. “Depends on who’s being slaughtered. And who’s doing the slaughtering.”

Neil picks at a blade of grass absentmindedly as he raises an eyebrow at Andrew. “Like what?” he asks. To Kevin’s amusement, Neil sounds genuinely curious.

But Andrew doesn’t respond in favor of turning his head toward Kevin. Day is propped up against the bark of an elm, twisting a cherry stem in one hand while the other holds a set of flashcards on the French Revolution and her _philosophie_ to quiz Neil. Not that Neil is putting in much effort from where he lay thumbing grass and chewing cherry skin.

“What on earth is the purpose of this?” Andrew asks Kevin.

“He needs help with French.” Kevin points at Neil’s blank face. _Duh_.

Andrew huffs a breath. Kevin still doesn’t believe the warnings Andrew keeps hinting at. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes,” Neil says, expression affronted, “he does.”

Andrew mutters something in German that has Neil scoffing. “You don’t have to be here, you know.”

Andrew mimics Neil’s previous expression. “Yes,” he mocks, voice flat, “he does.”

Neil snorts before leaning forward and grabbing a cherry from the bag they took from the cafeteria. Recognizing the inevitable before it happens, but powerless to stop the brewing disaster, Kevin cringes. But the auburn is fearless or stupid or a mix of the two and doesn’t hesitate as he lobs the small object at Andrew’s head. The red fruit bounces anticlimactically off Andrew’s cheek and onto the grass until it rolls to lay by Kevin’s suede chukka.

Kevin holds his breath.

A bluebird cries.

The wind whistles off key.

“Neil.” Andrew’s looking at the fallen cherry and not Neil’s face, the latter of which is starting to turn plum in a desperate effort not to laugh. “One question, if I may—just one: whatever the living fuck was that for?”  
  
The way he asks is so audaciously polite that Kevin forgets how dangerous the situation is and he and Neil crumble into laughter, too weak to stop themselves. Neil falls against Kevin’s leg, head resting on the taller man’s knee as Kevin’s lungs shake at Andrew’s stone face incredibility.

“He’s gonna fucking kill you,” Kevin wheezes out and Neil, who’d started to lift himself back up, falls back onto Kevin in fits of laughter. Andrew stares blankly for a few more seconds at their shaking forms before laying back and pulling his book over his face, as if defeated. He doesn’t smile at the sound, despite a deserving rival of heavenly bells. Not from where they can see, anyway, under the paperback. Meanwhile, Kevin picks up the discarded cherry and pops it in his mouth. And for some stupid, glorious reason, this has the pair losing it all over again.

Distantly, and yet so close to the heart at the same time, Neil realizes there are tears in his own eyes. Laughter-tears.

A first.

“He doesn’t look too murderous,” Neil comments when they finally start to sober. His smile lacks its usual sharp edges when he says, “Is the Monster already tired of us?”

Andrew doesn’t spare a glance at him. “Exhausted.”

“He doesn’t like being called that,” Kevin tells Neil, slightly out of breath. “‘Says if we’re gonna use nicknames, to get more creative.”

“Nicknames, huh?” Neil’s ribs oddly hurt as if he just had a workout. Laughter is queer form of medicine, apparently. His eyes rake over Andrew’s faux-relaxed form on the grass across from them. It’s more than obvious Andrew is on high alert as ever, but Neil has to admit: Minyard’s good at acting. “Any suggestions?”

Andrew’s index finger twitches where it lay against his crossed arms. He means it as a tease, but the next statement comes across like a taunt:“Choose your next words carefully, Nathaniel.”

Neil starts and the previous relaxed moment washes away. Stormy Aegean turned glacier, Neil turns his eyes away and cocks his jaw, though no retort follows. The laughter in his throat tastes acidic.

Kevin narrows his eyes at the blonde. “That was low, Andrew.”

“Was it?” Andrew wonders, voice light but muffled under the pages of the book on his head. “It’s just his name.”

Kevin remembers Neil near breaking in Court Square, truth after truth falling from numb lips. _My name—my, my real name—is Nathaniel. But I…I don’t—_

 _You don’t_ have _to be Nathaniel here,_ Kevin had said. _We are more than our names._

Kevin feels like he’s repeating himself when he says, “Neil doesn’t like being called—“

“I can speak for myself,” Neil tells Kevin shortly. Kevin shuts his mouth and nods once, cheeks flushing. To the blonde: “Touché, Andrew. Got the message, loud and clear.”

“Congratulations, you can take a hint.”

Kevin sighs but his heart calms when he notices Neil’s annoyance is slowly bleeding into drab amusement. “For what it’s worth,” Neil says, “I don’t really think you’re a monster. I wouldn’t be one to talk, anyway.”  
  
Andrew peeks out from the manuscript to peer at Neil. “Is this some heart-to-heart? Hell, no. Tell me we’re not about to have some heart-to-heart.”

Neil, despite himself, chuckles and Kevin’s learned to pick up on the soft lines that appear under Andrew’s eyes at the soft sound. Then the book is promptly replaced in its position and Kevin grins to himself.

 _You’re just as hopeless as I,_ he thinks.

Months ago, if Kevin had seen Andrew looking at another person the same way that Andrew looks at Neil when he thinks no one is watching, Kevin might have seen scarlet.

But now it’s only plums and cherries, and so much relief.

They haven’t talked about _it_ , he and Andrew. Kevin’s not sure _what_ they would talk about—if there’s even anything at all to discuss. What’s the point of words when existence says enough?

But no, Kevin muses. He supposes that’s not true. Discussion is good. Communication is crucial.

Because that’s the thing. This— _relationship_ , this— _connection_ , this— _whatever_ it is that’s slowly forming between the three is so much more than simple words or mindless actions. It’s calloused palms against scarred cheeks; it’s rough-hewn heartbeats against tempered skin; it’s honey lungs and cherry blood and Kevin thinks he would rather be flung off the highest point of Mount Everest than ever see the men in front of him come to harm.

It’s funny, isn’t it? Society tells you to fuck and kiss and ruin another’s life before you can even possibly _consider_ saying that four letter word. There’s boundaries and unspoken rules about when you can say _this_ and when you can call it _that_. There’s a box they want to fold you inside until your bones snap and bend and break and you suffocate from it all and then—and _only_ then—when your corpse is rotten and damned do they allow you to call this love.

Kevin doesn’t need to fuck or kiss or screw Andrew or Neil over to understand what the rising tides in his heart are telling him, just like Andrew doesn’t need to repeat the over-abused slogan that holds an infinite pounds less weight than his gaze alone does.

That’s not to say there aren’t perks to the other options. Minus the screwing Neil over part, of course. But Andrew and Kevin haven’t reached the point of no return, the trip over the chasm, with Neil just yet. Kevin can’t even be sure if that’s where this— _whatever_ this is, because honestly. It’s not like there’s handbooks with step-by-step instructions on how to go about the intricacies of such a relationship—is heading. He doesn’t know if Neil wants the other stuff, the intimacy, the domesticity, the…

‘Dating’ is such a juvenile term for the entire universe that makes up the emotions Kevin (and Andrew) has (have) for Neil, and (absolutely) vice-versa. The term doesn’t even begin to cover the tip of the iceberg. Stale suburban teenagers _date_. Mundane middle-aged divorcees _date_.

Kevin and Andrew and Neil and all the other fractured beings at Foxborough don’t _date_.

They exist and they survive and they latch onto the lost pieces of their souls reborn in each other until the day the Reaper catches up to them and yanks their joined hearts apart once more.

Kevin thinks he and Andrew might have finally found their missing heart and the thought alone of Neil being separated from them is enough to make Kevin burn.

“ _En tous cas. Vertu,”_ Kevin says, pulling himself out of his thoughts and getting back on topic. Neil groans and flops back against Kevin’s leg. He grabs a handful more cherries from the bag and hands a couple to Kevin. “Try to name one example of virtuous slaughter found in social environments..”

 _“Ça n'existe pas,”_ Neil argues. He chews around a seed. “The question is a fallacy.”

“Fancy word,” Andrew drawls. “Who taught you that; your nursemaid?”

They ignore him. “Play Devil’s Advocate,” Kevin tells Neil, watching a drop of cherry juice trail down Neil’s chin. Neil’s tongue darts out to catch the drop but it's in vain and he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. It’s only after a wrongfully silent moment that Kevin realizes Neil is waiting for him to elaborate on the instructions, and Kevin tears his eyes back to the notes. “You, uh, have to write an essay on this later. Might as well start bullshitting ideas now.”

Neil throws his hands out, exasperated. Either he didn’t notice Kevin’s distraction, or doesn’t care. “Education is a farce.”

“Agreed,” Andrew sighs from under his book.

“Just. I don’t know. Can’t we do this later?” Neil picks up another cherry and plops it in his mouth, stem and all. Kevin playfully flicks him on the cheek before picking off the stem to throw into the grass. “I’m more than ready for the test. Ask me anything else and I’ll be too tired for tonight.”

“‘Cause that would be such a shame,” Andrew snickers.

 _“Tais-toi,_ ” Neil tells him and, finishing the piece of fruit, spits the cherry seed at him. The seed lands a dismal two feet away from Andrew and he picks up the book to glance boredly at Neil before flipping him off.

“I don’t speak that bastard language,” Andrew says.

Neil smirks. “Cause that’s _such a shame.”_

Andrew looks ready to kill a man, and quite frankly, that’s hot. For both Kevin and Neil, to be clear. So as men do, they change the subject and continue to avoid the inevitable.

“The party isn’t for awhile,” Kevin says before World War III erupts. Or his pants. Really, does bloodlust have to look _that_ good on Andrew? Is that really _fair_? “Let’s just get through this concept and we can go get ready.”

“You’re a tyrant, Day,” Neil grumbles. He’s not looking at Kevin, but watching Andrew stretch back on the grass. Minyard’s turtleneck rides up just enough to expose his midriff, and while that’s what’s now caught Kevin’s eyes, Neil is looking at the small indentation barely visible under Andrew’s waistband. It’s—

 _Not guns,_ Neil thinks. _Knives._

Oh.

Meanwhile, Kevin’s saying: “Thank you. Now answer the question. Think of an example.”

Neil sighs and looks away. “I can’t—“

“I can,” Andrew says off-handedly.

Neil chews on another cherry stem before pointing it at Andrew. “Anything you want to share with the class?”

Andrew sighs. And then, and only then, appears the ghost of a real smile. A shadow at best, a suggestion at worst.

Andrew says, “ _Palach._ ”

Palach.

Not guns.

Knives.

_Oh._

“I’d rather you not speak of him,” Neil finally says to the grass. He’s holding onto the stem with a death grip. Kevin has the painful desire to unwrap Neil’s clenched fingers and lace them in his, but he doesn’t. The air is too tense.

“Don’t you consider your father virtuous, Neil?” Andrew continues as if Neil hadn’t spoken. He’s slid the book completely off his face, and if it weren’t for the haunted glimmer in his eyes, Kevin would’ve thought Andrew was trying to start something again just for shits and giggles.

But no. There’s something more. Something else that Andrew is trying to get at. Something Neil and Kevin aren’t understanding—not yet.

But it’s important, isn’t it?

Communication is crucial.

Neil picks at a blade of grass, mouth twisted. “I think you can take a fucking guess.”

“I’m serious.” Andrew sits up. “If morality is relative, if it’s your’s to decide, what’s to say there isn’t virtue to be found in what your father did?”

“Morality isn’t relative,” Kevin says.

“This is the Enlightenment, is it not?” Andrew returns. “The whole _point_ is Relativism.”

Neil shakes his head. “My father wouldn’t have known what virtue was if you drowned him in it.” Neil doesn’t look at Kevin when he says to Andrew, meaning so much more than just the physical words he states, “I know you know who I am. Who my father is—“

Kevin, for his part, doesn’t know how Andrew knows about Neil. He never told Andrew what Neil said to him. But ever since the start it's been quite clear that Andrew knows it all, or at least a world more than Kevin. Kevin’s not sure if he wants to know the rest. But he sure isn’t going to drag it out of Andrew. If Neil wants Kevin to know, he’ll tell Kevin himself. And if not, then so be it. Kevin can more than respect that.

“— _was_. So trust me when I say you don’t need to remind me,” Neil finishes.

Andrew grunts. “Hush, now. I don’t say it to throw you into a tantrum—

“I—“

“—but to really _think_. Daddy Dearest of your’s was an absolute head case, sure.”  
  
“That’s one way to put it,” Kevin mutters.

“But there’s a reason the authorities let him get away with his shit for so long,” Andrew continues. “You call him evil, but he took out the same filth that international government agencies would just as quickly kill for to take down.”  
  
 _And you would know all about international government agencies,_ Neil almost spits. The amount of self control he employs not to should be named a virtue in itself.

Instead, he says, “It doesn’t matter if what he did…I don’t know— _helped_ to an extent. He still killed innocents. Zarez—too many.” He’d started to slip into Russian but catches himself, face aflame.

“The good doesn’t outweigh the bad,” Andrew agrees quietly. When he turns, head cocking to look at Neil, an involuntary shudder goes through Kevin. 

Andrew says, “But neither does the bad outweigh the good.”

“We’re talking about a mass _murderer_ ,” Neil emphasizes, voice cracking.

Kevin thinks that Neil’s cheeks look painted with the same cherries he’d devoured. And if it weren’t for how heartbreaking the situation is, Kevin wouldn’t have been able to censor himself in telling Neil how beautiful he is.

Tragically beautiful.

He thinks Andrew would secretly agree, and good God is that a thought.

“No,” Kevin realizes, meeting Andrew’s eyes. The realization dawns on him like bittersweet honey soaking on bread. He tugs Neil’s sleeve until Neil gets the hint and moves closer, head falling onto Kevin’s shoulder. “No, he’s not. Not anymore.”

“It’s never been about the goddamn Butcher,” Andrew sighs. There’s a second conversation occurring in the shadows, an unspoken language passing between Neil and Andrew that Kevin doesn’t understand. He thinks he’ll understand when the time comes. “It’s about you, Neil.”

Neil chews the inside of his cheek until the skin tears and copper fills his mouth, replacing the taste of cherry blood. “I don’t understand.” He means it this time.

“It doesn’t matter who the Butcher was to you,” Andrews says, voice straining. Like it’s an effort to reveal so much. Kevin sees it as a win, especially considering how painfully sober Andrew is today. “It never did. You are not the sins of your father.”

“You are the Virtue in his Slaughter,” Kevin says, as soft as a prayer.

Neil opens his mouth, then closes it.

The cherries ripen.

Neil says, “ _Oh_.”

As if the conversation/revelation never occurred, Andrew digs a lazy hand into his pants pocket and retrieves a pack of Parliaments. Another hand in, and a lighter comes out. Lighting a stick, he says, “Finish studying. I need a nap before tonight.”

Neil looks ready to protest what was just said but stops when Kevin’s hand finds his. He laces their fingers together quietly and Neil exhales, heart roaring.

 _You’re wrong_ , Neil wants to say.

_You’ve never been more wrong._

But he doesn’t speak. The Raven’s lost it’s voice to the wind. Though his mind’s a mess, he relaxes into Kevin’s side and listens to Kevin read through the rest of Neil’s half assed notes on de Sade.

He likes the sound of Kevin’s voice. It’s low and soft like lavender, but deep as sin. Needless to say, his voice is addicting.

(For both Andrew _and_ Neil, to be clear.)

Opinions are relative, but when your world’s ending, you may as well latch onto those details like gospel. It’s all you have left, anyway.

It’s not enough, though. It’ll never be enough.

But for Neil, who has so little time and so little life—

_You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’ve never been more wrong._

—It has to be.

IV.

Nevix waits for the agent on the other end of the line to pick up. It’s started to rain—hard—and they almost think they don’t have the patience to stick around much longer. They’re sitting on a metal bench in the East Quad as they watch their target walk in the opposite direction with Joseph and Day towards the dorms.

_“Hello?”_

“Finally,” Nevix sighs. “I’m drenched. Where are you?”

The agent hums noncommittally. _“Went for a swim_. _I’m leaving Wreck soon.”_

“I swear to—“

_“Relax, Katelyn. If it makes you feel any better, I got in touch with Danseuse. What The Family’s saying? It’s true.”_

“Great.” Nevix closes their eyes and curses internally. There never is a break, huh? Always something.“So what does this mean for us?”

_“Exactly what it sounds like. If what the inside’s are saying is accurate, they’re going to kill him. Sooner rather than later.”_

Nevix rolls their eyes. “Can’t say they’re not predictable. When?”

The agent coughs. _“Not sure, really. Boss initially said May, but they’re getting impatient. Doesn’t want to wait any longer.”_

“Figures,” says Nevix. “Does this Boss of your’s know you’ve contacted me?”

The agent on the other end laughs. _“He was the one who_ told _me to contact you.”_

Nevix blinks. _That_ , they were not expecting. “Interesting. So I can assume our teams will be cooperating fully on this measure?”

 _“You assume correct.”_ There’s a pause, then: _“But there’s a couple conditions.”_

How stereotypical. Nevix resists a yawn. “There’s always conditions. Spill it.”

_“Andr—Joseph doesn’t know yet. Danseuse hadn’t gotten around to telling him and now the Boss wants it to stay that way. Says Joseph and Day’s connection is too strong to risk informing Joseph until it’s over. Emotions make things messy, if you know what I mean.”_

Nevix doesn’t like the sound of it, but they know it’s right. Sure, Andrew might go into a murderous rampage after all is said and done, but that’s for future Nevix to worry about.

“You said a couple conditions,” Nevix reminds. “What else?”

_“Boss wants them dead. All of them. No offense, but we don’t give a shit about your pacifist manifesto. They’ve been a drain on The Family for far too long, and if you want this stain taken out, you gotta agree to not interfere with our...methods.”_

Nevix clicks their tongue. “Oh, trust me. That won’t be a problem. My bosses are the pacifists, but they’re not the ones leading this operation.” They smile even though the other agent can’t possibly see. “I am, and I won’t be a pacifist until the day they bury me in the dirt.“

 _“Put your money where your mouth is and we won’t have a problem,”_ the agent says.

“You’re right, we won’t. Be at the Quad in ten,” Nevix orders. “If The Family really wants to form an alliance with my people just because of this, there’s going to be some ground rules.”

 _“There’s always conditions,”_ the agent agrees cheekily.

“Damn right. See you soon, Matt.”

_“Bye, Kate.”_

The line clicks off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL WHAT THE HECK A DOODLE DOO IS OUR PAL KATELYN UP TO HUH (hint: prob not what you think it is hehe) WE SHALL SEEEEEE
> 
> I've said this before but I feel this bears repeating: this is (obviously) a work of fiction and ideas represented throughout are not necessarily my own personal beliefs. Please keep that in mind. 
> 
> (BUT OKAY MAYBE MATT/SETH,, IS A THOUGHT?? A THOTTIE THOT??? LIKE ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, THEY COULDVE BEEN THE TOP TIER PLATONIC BROTP. RIGHT?? AM I CRAZY?? wait dont answer that OK THOUGHT OVER)
> 
> Lmao, anyway...
> 
> Citations:
> 
> Title of chapter and in text references to Glory and Gore by Lorde.
> 
> Memento Mori: Latin for “Remember you must/will die” or “Remember you are mortal”. A famous expression first used by the Stoics, one of the Ancient Greek schools of philosophy known for their constant meditation on death. The phrase was coined to represent various Stoic principles, one being a motivation to live a “good life” at all times, for one never knows the moment of their death. 
> 
> Character references to Harry Potter.
> 
> Chais pas, French slang for “I don’t know.”
> 
> En tous cas. Vertu, French for “Anyway, Virtue.”
> 
> Tais-toi, French for “Shut up.”
> 
> “Wrong does not cease to be wrong because the majority share in it.” quote by Leo Tolstoy


	16. Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does history repeat itself? 
> 
> Very well, then. History repeats itself.
> 
> Whitman, are you listening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: references to the fallen five, specifically the moment after their hanging (so, implied su*cide and c*rpses)
> 
> 2 chapter upload this time! the first is a mini one to align with the overall theme of titwtwe. the next chapter continues with our current catastrophe.
> 
> I KNOW I SAY "THANK U" A LOT FOR READING BUT YALL HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY EACH AND EVERY ONE OF U MAKES ME. MY FRIENDS CAN ATTEST I AM AN EMOTIONAL PERSON BUT I STG YALL MAKE ME CRY WITH THE MOST SIMPLEST OF COMMENTS SO THANK U SO MUCH I APPRECIATE U. KEEP BEING SWAG, HEATHENS. I AM ALSO *TRYING* TO UPDATE MONTHLY NOW IM SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

I.

The bodies danced above the earth like pixies in the wind.

Legs dangling, skin pallid.

Empty lungs and emptier souls.

Four shells of what once was.

Yet another remained intact.

_Found five, left one._

Jean Mort Claire eyed the corpses above him. His smile was wide but his mind was shattered.

Bright death. A fitting name for an unfitting individual.

Why _five_ when only four fell?

Behind Jean, a woman screamed.

_Saw four, met none._

Kathleen Joanna Ferdinand lifted a hand to her face, lips quivering. “The students,” she choked. _“The students.”_

Jean tore his eyes from the raptured sight above him.

It was time to leave.

Maybe, just maybe, it had always been time to leave.

_Tripped thrice, can’t run._

We all run, in the end. Despite our better judgement, despite history’s eternal mantra, we run.

We always run.

Until our feet carry us no longer. Until the path betrays our escape. Until the bullet, the knife, the claw is in our back and we are pulled back into the ashes from which we came.

(You are dust, they say, and to dust you shall return.)

Jonah Holstrom ran for his life. Jean ran into the shadows.

Another boy—centuries, decades, a million breaths and a thousand miracles later—runs as well.

They always run.

But where are they running to? Who are they running from?

 _When_ will they realize that running is in vain?

Because the inevitable—is inevitable—is inevitable.

Blink for a second and you might miss the inevitable.

But the inevitable won’t miss you.

_Blinked twice, eyes gone._

The eyes, the eyes. The windows to the soul. The tear-stained glass frescoes painting a universe of truth.

You can lie with your lips. You can lie with your mind.

You can not lie with your eyes.

Unravel your tears, discard your defenses. What are you left with?

Jean took one last look at his hanging friends—departed disasters.

“We all fall in the end,” Jean promised.

And he smiled. Oh, _God_ , how he smiled.

What a shattered sight.

“We always Fall.”

_One man, undone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact of the Day that no one asked for!! When I originally wrote Jean Mort Claire, I intended for his character to be a reflection of a darker version of Jean Moreau. Jean Moreau ended up not being as central a point to titwtwe though instead of what I initially planned, but thanks be to Fanon for letting me go ham with original characters lmaooo.
> 
> Second Fun Fact of the Day that no one asked for!!! I got inspired/wrote half this scene in my head while I listened to my priest drone on and on about how god's will is inevitable and and impossible to avoid. which is just suCH A POSITIVE TOPIC LMAO (not) so tah-da!! thanks padre for inspiring my blasphemous writings yet again *mwah*


	17. Let's Pick the Truth That We Believe In, Like a Bad Religion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,  
> And do run still, though still I do deplore?  
> ~John Donne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi so this chapter is written SO weirdly. im bsclly experimenting with different writing styles at this point lol. I dont plan on making any more chapters written in this style, but I believe the way it's written effectively delivers the thoughts/messages I want it to. so if u like this chapter, YAY and if u don't, THE REST WILL BE RELATIVELY THE SAME AS BEFORE lmao so yayyy 
> 
> ALSO I just realized that until today, I hadn't tagged this fic as slow burn. I tagged it now cause THIS IS ABSOLUTELY A SLOW BURN IF U HAVENT BEEN ABLE TO TELL YET KASDJHGJLD SORRY
> 
> cw: canon typical references to blood, violence, gore (references, not too detailed, but constant mentions), continued theme of drug use and drugging against someone's will. *very* brief allusion to su*cidal thoughts. as always please let me know if anything else should be mentioned bc i am a dumb whore <33

I. 

There’s three sides to every story:

The first view. The opposing. And the Truth.

There’s three sides to every story but you’ve only got two eyes. Two ears.

If you’re lucky.

And sometimes, you’ve only got enough trust that barely stretches to even one of the parties involved.

It’s a shame, but that’s life. That’s fact. That’s Reality.

The fox has a story.

The Queen has his.

And the spy, the survivor, the worst liar of them all certainly has something to contribute.

But how does the story go when they all have different words to say? Different interpretations, different perspectives, different—existences—all scrambled together?

Because there’s a fine line between Truth and Reality. It’s so thin, so unassuming that you just might miss it if you’re not paying attention.

Can you finish the story?

II.

It starts like this:

Smudged mirror glass, a half-empty bottle of hair gel.

A tie on the floor, three souls knotted hazardously around each other.

Amber matches in the air and it feels like a dream and Neil breaks the fragile silence when he says:

“What happened to your face?”

This isn’t how the story’s supposed to go. But who’s to know that, when you’re the one living it? There’s supposed to be a party tonight. Or did it already happen? The dream won’t shed answers, though. Not yet.

Across from Neil, Kevin’s hands still, poised in pretense composure. His own perspective, his own reflection in the pane. A drop of deep honey falls from his fingertip. Too much. Always too much. Even after all this time, Kevin’s not good with foundation—

Three sides to every story. Here’s another.

_It starts like this:_

_Burned skin, two smoking lungs._

_Bodies in the air, dancing—dead—pixies._

_The faces next to Neil swim in and out of focus, a school of iridescent fish swarming his psyche. Glowing eyes to his left, a murder of crows—no, ravens? Too unkind, Neil’s never been kind—and he steers clear of that crowd. There’s no room for the truth right now. Red lips to his right, as rich as velvet. Oh, but they lie. The lips always lie._

_Is this the party? How’d he get here? Why are the ravens laughing?_

_Neil’s head hurts—_

Three sides, but we’re ignoring the third. Now back to the first.

It happens like this:

A trembling hand, stains of honey.

Blonde hair rising to attention, lips curling back.

Kevin says, “I don’t ask about your scars, Neil.”

His expression reflects back at Neil from the bathroom mirror, cheekbones sharp and evident of their trials. Self-inflicted survival. Andrew stares ahead stoically at a mark on the counter, but he’s listening. He always listens.

“You can,” Neil offers. At this, Andrew bristles but doesn’t contradict. “I’ll answer if you ask.” The suggestion isn’t one out of kindness, but exchange. A truth for a truth, an eye for an eye, a life for a miserable life.

So many scars, so many stories. Neil thinks of Kevin and Andrew in Scavenger’s Field, Kevin’s voice in Neil’s ear and Andrew’s eyes on Neil’s lips. Neil wants to tell them the story again, the full story, the end and the beginning and all the shades in between. Not hide behind what he only assumes Andrew knows and what he knows Kevin does not.

He wants to unburden the weight off his shoulders.

He wants to carry their’s instead.

He wants Andrew to—

(Some stories interrupt. Most do, in fact.)

_It happens like this:_

_Shoulders shaking, soul deep tremors._

_Drugs in the vein, unbidden ecstasy._

_A party, a party, what’s the point of a party when the celebration never Ends?_

_“Where’s Andrew?” Neil asks. He doesn’t know who he’s addressing. The school of fish—no, the students, the beasts, the asteroids on a collision course—pass by him without care. Some dance, others fuck. It’s a nightmare, it’s a dream, it’s a Reality he’s never had any intention of surviving. “Have you seen Andrew? Kevin?”_

_His head pounds, neurotic bombs, and he thinks,_

_Someone fucked with my drink._

_A voice says, “Neil?”_

(Do you understand the pattern? First then second, second then first. The Truth comes later, inopportune as always. Try to keep up.)

It goes like this:

—Andrew to call him out for his lies, his sins. To forgive him for what he has done, but mostly for the things he has not. He doesn’t think Andrew hates him, exactly. He just doesn’t know the alternative.

“I’ll answer,” Neil says again, stronger this time. So fucking honest. A damned man’s promise. “If you ask.”

He kicks at the tie on the floor. It’s a nice tie, emerald green as bright as Kevin’s eyes.

The fabric is torn.

Neil’s already dressed. He’s not sure what to expect from tonight, and he doesn’t enjoy one bit the black silk button-down Andrew had practically thrown at him when Neil walked in the door. It’s too soft against his skin, too smooth and delicate. But it’s too much energy to argue, and Neil wonders if Andrew likes giving things just to rip them away _(_ or _off_ or _off_ or _off)_ just as defiantly.

Neil shivers at the thought, unsure if he welcomes the idea or wants to run like the devil from it.

Perhaps both.

(Always both.)

Andrew says to Neil, “Why ask? We shouldn’t have to interrogate you to know you.”

But Neil disagrees.

_It goes like this:_

— _“Andrew?” Neil turns his head to the voice but the air swims_

_and the lights are red_

_and he doesn’t like red_

_because red means Mary_

_and Mary means blood_

_and blood is the time-bomb ticking within his veins and pulsing to the beat of the Finale._

_“Andrew, what’s going on?”_

_The pixies scream._

It feels like this:

Sun baking on skin one minute too long, lone ashes of a fire cooling after dusk.

Dried leaves crunching under feet, bittersweet tea soothing a sore throat.

Cherries on the tongue, three doses of pain.

The sad thing is, or maybe the one small mercy of the situation, is that Kevin isn’t suspicious. He’s too pure for poisons like Neil. Neil’s the whiskey to Kevin’s wound, the salt water in the cut.

And Andrew’s the fucking bandage and somehow, in some miracle, they all have the potential to heal.

Unless one bleeds out first.

What’s a story without its beginning? Or middle? Or End?

What’s a Queen without his court?

Because _that’s_ the problem, that one torturous reminder blaring in Neil’s psyche, that it’s always Kevin, the End and the Beginning of this whole damn affair. Kevin, who’s mother pissed off the wrong people. Kevin, who such people would have already destroyed—skinned alive, burned from the inside out—if not for Neil’s waning influence.

(Neil won’t let it happen, he won’t—he won’t—he _won’t_. He’d burn at the stake instead. He knows Andrew would do the same for his Queen.)

Kevin who first believed in Neil, who defended Neil from his demons, his Father, his Nature.

Kevin who smiles like sunrise and laughs with the warm echoes of rainfall.

Kevin who has scars, but no secrets.

Who deserves so much better than his boys who are both.

There’s a flip side to this coin, but it shines the same:

Because it was Kevin who supported Andrew, who never demanded more from Andrew than Andrew was willing to give. Kevin, who knows Andrew built his life on survival and subterfuge, yet doesn’t resent him for it. Kevin, who let Andrew break him apart piece by fractured piece, and stayed to see Andrew glue the remains back together.

Kevin who once told Andrew, _I’ll love you, even when you forget to love me._

Kevin who glowed golden when Andrew answered, his voice unstable, _I never forget anything._

So, it’s not surprising, really, when Kevin shakes his head at Neil’s offer. When he finishes dotting the foundation against his cheeks, scars almost covered but not quite and lips curled downwards. When he says, “Relationships aren’t meant to be a trade system.”

Andrew inhales. He stares at the invisible stain on the counter one second longer. He exhales.

_It feels like this:_

_Nails in the palm, crucified crowds._

_Broken ribs kicked once, twice, too many times._

_Laughter that burns, smiles that kill. Slaughter. Butcher._

_Neil wonders if this is death or a hangover not yet peaked or a heartbreak harsh enough to cause both._

— _“Neil.” Andrew’s saying something else but Neil can’t hear. No, he can hear, but he can’t understand. All these damn languages he knows and he can’t comprehend a single sentence in any of them? Ridiculous, really._

_Why did he agree to the party?_

_“What’s wrong with me?” Neil demands. “My head—oh, God. My head.”_

_The phantom nails dig deeper. The pain crescendoes, mezzoforte—now forte—now fortissimo—_

It sounds like this:

Keys falling from the lock, not yet turned.

A book flying through the air, a whimper of warning.

A zippo flipping open, metal against mold.

Neil says, “What relationship?”

In the mirror, Neil watches Kevin blink once, twice, three times, before looking down and screwing the lid back on the foundation bottle. Andrew cocks his head. The blonde’s eyes are rimmed with glitter and gold. He’s not beautiful. He’s rapturous.

Kevin says quietly, “Any worth having.”

_It sounds like this:_

_Indecipherable words, a concerned murmur and a stoic sigh._

_Music like thunder, deafening an illegal transaction in the corner._

_Snakes hissing in the cracks; Greed conquered Eden too._

_Andrew says something and Neil thinks it’s a curse. His eye glitter reflects in the club’s strobing lights and Neil wonders why Andrew wears something so stark. So obvious. A man so determined to stay hidden in the shadows yet shines from their outskirts._

_Creature of contradiction._

_Neil says, a laugh itching in his throat for no determinable reason, “I’m not worth the hassle.”_

_Andrew says, “I know.”_

_Andrew says, “But I don’t care.”_

_His voice is Revelation bells and Neil drowns in it._

Double, double, toil and trouble. The three Wyrd sisters have their own story to tell. But it boils, and it brews, and it burns:

“I don’t understand.” Neil leans against the bathroom doorway, watching Kevin begin to wash off the makeup’s residue from his hands.

He thinks he understands, though. It’s scary. It’s painful. It’s exciting.

But it can’t happen.

Andrew murmurs in lilted Russian, “Liar, liar,”

Neil can’t stop himself from returning in the same manner, “You’re one to talk.”

In the mirror, Kevin frowns.

_…oh how it burns like this:_

_“You found him,” Kevin’s saying. Neil can’t see the man, but he hears his voice. Hearing is believing, isn’t that the expression? No, seeing is believing. But Neil can’t see Kevin. So does he really believe—_

_Circular arguments._

_“I’m sorry.” The words have left his mouth, unrestrained but involuntary. Neil repeats his apology, and it’s a pathetic existence knowing there’s too_ much _for Neil to know what he’s sorry for. Sorry for ruining your night. Sorry for ruining your relationship. Sorry for ruining your life._

_Sorry I’m gonna die and I don’t have enough time to save you either._

_Andrew says, “Stop being so dramatic—“_

Oh, how everything always burns:

“What’s that mean?” Kevin asks. He turns around to look at Andrew then Neil, crossing his arms in the meantime. He has nice arms, Neil thinks. Pity the puppet men seek after them with their strings.

Andrew stays quiet. So does Neil.

Kevin says, “Really? That’s it? I don’t appreciate you two talking like _that_ —“he gestures between the pair, as if the movement encompasses his explanation perfectly—“so I can’t understand."

Neil chews his lip. Andrew inhales.

Kevin rubs his jaw. “At least save the fucking secrets for later. When I’m not around.”

“I want to tell him,” Neil says in Russian, eyes pointed to the wall next to Kevin’s head.

Andrew returns, “No.”

Kevin’s eyes shoot up between the two, his mouth dropping open just slightly and lips parted so breathtakingly. “I—Are you fucking _serious_ right now?”

Andrew tuts, “So dramatic.”

_And it goes, and it goes..._

_Drinks overflowing cups._

_Strippers on a stage, sniper on the balcony._

_Phoebus apologizing to Achilles._

_There’s dust in the air._

_“Where am I?”_

_He can’t stop asking the question, a constant current in his mind._ Where am I where am I where am I where am I where-

_“What’s he saying?” He hears Kevin ask. He doesn’t hear Andrew’s answer._

_Neil thinks his eyes are open but a second later that’s proven false when his eyelids raise and the light returns in full force. Crimson-carbon shadows_. _Kevin and Andrew are in front of him but Neil can’t find the strength to raise his head and look at them—really look at them._

_More music, more laughter, some screams, some cheers. It’s horrendous, it’s hedonism, it—_

_Hurts. Hurts. Hurts._

_“How much did I drink?” Neil groans. But that’s not what he means to say._

_He wants to know who did this._

...and it always goes like this:

“You two can be real fucking assholes,” Kevin mutters. His eyes close momentarily and when he looks back at them, the shining emerald betrays his surrender. “But I signed up for that, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry.” The words are out of his mouth before Neil can take them back. He’s apologized so much that he wonders if he even means the words. How can you repent, knowing full well your chained to your sins? John Donne would have a field day at the thought. “I would tell you, it’s just—“

“Neil.” Andrew’s throwing Neil a glare clearer than the Maldives and if the situation weren’t so volatile, Neil wouldn’t be able to restrain a smirk.

“I can’t,” Neil finishes. It’s a strain.

Kevin sighs before waving a hand in defeat. “I know.” _What do you know?_ “I won’t push.” _I wish you would_. “I just…”

Andrew sighs before taking a step forward and curling a hand unashamed around Kevin’s cheek. _“On ne parlera plus sans toi,”_ Andrew murmurs. Kevin nods, shoulders losing their weight for the moment.

Neil mocks Andrew’s words. “I thought you didn’t speak that bastard language.”

Kevin, despite himself, despite them all, laughs, and its holy bells.

_Why does it go like this?_

_Neil had watched the bartender pour the water into his glass. He never saw anything off, but the aching knowledge that it’s the only explanation sends his mind reeling. He’s vulnerable like this, inhibitions compromised. Someone’s arms are around him and it would feel so good if it weren’t because he could barely stand._

_“Water,” Kevin’s saying. So it’s Kevin holding him up and Andrew shielding the pair from all else. Neil near chokes in relief that he can understand the words. He never wants to be unaware of Kevin or Andrew. “I was with him the whole time. He’s only had water.”_

_“Water,” Andrew repeats after a heavy moment, and it sounds like damnation. “It’s always the fucking water.”_

_Kevin says, “What?”_

_String theory says everything’s connected. Every atom, every thought, every speck of dust in the universe is connected together in some infinitesimally small way. The strings pull at Neil and he thinks druggedly,_ That’s why the puppet men are in charge. _He lifts his head for no reason save for the strings and that’s when it happens._

_That’s when it begins._

_That’s when he knows, without a doubt, how it’s going to end._

_Because she’s there._

_He manages to think through the haze that he should've seen this coming. She’s just as red as the last time Neil saw her. Nails and lips as dark as Neil’s blood she near bathed in before he and Mary ran._

_Lola smiles at him for a haunting second from across the bar before disappearing into the crowd. There’s no great diversion, no clanging alarm or sounding bells. There’s only the students and criminals and runaway trainwrecks to surround Neil._

_Neil’s eyes burn black, and he falls forward._

This is how it ends:

Andrew tugs on Kevin’s collar and their lips meet like currents, inevitable and crashingly _right_.

Neil thinks to cast his eyes down but what’s the point?

If the inevitable—is the inevitable—is the inevitable…

Andrew pulls an inch, a breath away, teeth skimming Kevin’s jaw. Kevin’s eyes flutter between closed and open before making contact with Neil’s over Andrew’s shoulder and—

Forget about currents, it’s a tidal wave rising up that Neil knows he won’t surface from. His face burns and he stumbles back, shoulders jarring the door frame before turning to leave. Where he’ll go, he doesn’t know. But it’s instinct. Running has always been instinct. Perhaps that makes him a coward but Neil’s never stayed long enough in one place to care.

 _Tragic hero, tragic me_ , Andrew had said. Oh how rightfully wrong, how wrongfully right he had been.

“Neil,” Kevin calls, voice raw at the same time Andrew says, “Stay.”

Neil’s chest feels as if it’s a second from collapsing in on itself. He stands before the door of Kevin’s dorm room, hand frozen before the handle. Unbidden, the memory of Mary holding Neil to her chest as they fell asleep together in the backseat of one of the many nameless cars they’d stolen over the years comes to his mind. He misses her touch, he misses touch _itself_ , the kind you don’t have to beg for but that comes without expectations, without threats, without consequences.

The only touch Neil has known is pain. If Fortune’s wheel is correct, when will his fate turn around?

Neil thinks, _The dead don’t have to feel this kind of pain._

Until May. Until May. Until May.

Will it be a blessing or a curse when they put the bullet in his brain? Neil doesn’t know, but the end is inevitable. He’s not dragging Kevin back to them, he’s not selling Andrew out, no matter the _consequences_ , and Ichirou won’t tolerate empty hands.

“Neil, come here,” Kevin says. He watches Neil from the bathroom entrance, expression tentative. But also hopeful. So damn hopeful. _“S’il te plaît.”_

Neil says, “I—

III.

—Don’t you hate interruptions? Too bad life’s full of them. Birth is the first interruption, signaling the end of the only true peace you could ever know: unexistence, unawareness. Death interrupts breath and breath interrupts the still, frozen moment you take to interrupt the onslaught that life throws your way. Interruption is a cycle, and it really never stops because stopping interrupts—

Circular arguments. Have you kept up so far?

Doesn’t matter, because now for the Truth. You knew this was coming. It’s inevitable, if inconvenient. The Truth never waits for your signal, though. The Truth interrupts all.

The First Truth, the first dose:

No one is Invincible.

_I don’t ask about your scars, Neil._

Take the Queen, for example. The strongest piece on the board. Kevin is noble but his lineage is flawed. Corrupt. Kayleigh Day had good intentions, rest her soul, but good God did she make a mistake. A horribly lethal one at that.

For this, Kevin isn’t just breakable. His crown is chipped, fractured. He’s a million paper cuts curled around each other, ready to be set alight.

(He just doesn’t know it yet.)

But it’s inevitable.

The Second Truth, a higher dosage:

No one is Collateral.

_I never forget anything._

Another point, another view, another instance. Andrew, the son of false gods, a prisoner of his own skin, was taught to believe otherwise. Humans, Gottkult told him, are defunct. Our Nature is unsalvageable. Man is no more civilized than the Minotaur trained to heed a master’s call.

But life is precious, as the optimists say. No human being is simply a tool to use and discard on a whim. And most of all, life is so damn resilient, despite it’s critics. Andrew is living proof of that. Gottkult fed him poison beliefs and twisted the truth into unescapable labyrinths.

But Andrew, impossibly, escaped. With his family—his real family—no less.

(The fox says he isn’t worth the hassle, but Andrew has some choice words in contrast.)

They’re inevitable, after all.

The Third Truth, the final prescription:

No one is Eternal.

_Some people aren’t born to handle this kind of pain._

Your Truth is not my Truth. Your life is not my life. Your End is perhaps my Beginning, but we all stop at some point.

Neil’s Truth is flawed. He thinks he’s right, but he’s so very wrong. His life is not his own, but preordained by forces out of his control. The Family—the false family—has greater sway than mere desperation.

And when the End comes for Neil, it’ll be so much more than that.

It’ll be the Beginning.

It’s—

(finish the story)

—Inevitable.

IV.

In the crowd of drugs and dancing delirium, only three people are aware of the fox falling forward, unconscious and heart beating too fast before he hits the ground. The Queen curses some abysmal god as his arms instinctively grab for the falling body. The other one, the spy, the soldier, the survivor, scans the crowd with blank faced rage. He doesn’t know who’s done this, unaware that the collapsed fox had caught the scent moments before. But this is yet another attack against his keep. It’s one thing to slight a survivor’s honor; it’s a different story when his responsibilities are involved. And for all intents and purposes, the fox is his responsibility, whether anyone likes it or not.

And the third, the final person, is already gone by the time the fox has slipped into troubled sleep. Her smile is vinegar and smoke as she opens the passenger door to the car.

“Should we send for the next message tonight?” Oremor asks. He’s leaned back in the driver’s seat, cleaning the underside of his nails with a custom-crimson twenty-five centimetre Laguiole Le Fidele. It’s an offense against nature, but that’s the Malcoms: A permanent stain; a plague on both the Families.

“No. Soon,” Lola promises her brother. “I think they received this one just fine.”

Oremor sniffs before flipping the outrageously long pocket knife closed. “You promised me the next one.”

“Patience,” Lola says. “When the time comes, he’s all your’s.”

Oremor huffs a response as he shifts into gear. He's not smiling, but his eyes dance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is( tentatively) going to be veryyy long so please bear with these shorter updates <33 
> 
> THANK U FOR READING. IF U WOULD LIKE TO LEAVE ME A YELP REVIEW, THAT IS CURRENTLY AND NEVER WILL BE POSSIBLE SO FEEL FREE TO DROP A COMMENT BELOW. I am attracted to comments like winnie the pooh to honey. also feel free to hit me up on tumblr for any statements of anger, enthusiasm, confusion, disgust, exhilaration, despair, or all of the above that you would like to share. peace out.
> 
> citations:
> 
> title of chapter from bastille's "doom days" 
> 
> references to John Donne and Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth
> 
> reference to the secret history 
> 
> reference to the iliad, the consolations of philosophy, tri partite structure inspired by vergil lol
> 
> “On ne parlera plus sans toi." literal translation: We won't talk without you. Andrew's French is as good as mine, which is to say, he's trying his best, but it ain't fluent by any means skjdhgafh
> 
> “S’il te plaît." Please


	18. Everybody's Looking for a Love to Start a Riot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars  
> But in ourselves."  
> ~Shakespeare, 'Julius Caesar'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE ARE BACK AHHHHH three chapters uploaded at once, yeehaw! thank u for ur patience, i bsclly had to rewrite an entire section and i was determined to get these chapters posted before my birthday tomorrow so hot diggity dog we did it baby!! also thank u to anyone who was able to vote in america, biden isn't a saint by any means but thank fUCK we now have like. hope!!
> 
> cw: references to the continued theme of forced drugging

I.

Dust on the road, spirits in the air.

An angry man behind the wheel is the first recipe for disaster.

White knuckles on leather, blue eyes dark as coal.

Three innocents more guilty than Judas are the second.

Eighty miles an hour on the interstate, five over the limit. The driver presses the gas, presses his luck, even more. Eighty-five. Ninety. He’s speeding towards a death sentence, but the execution isn’t scheduled for today. He still has time. They all do.

The gulp of old red bull he forces down his throat is more filthy than the lie.

Lies, lies, lies. The third recipe, the ultimate catastrophe.

The Final dining course for the End.

The skeleton in the backseat offends the driver most of all. With its battered skin and hollow heart, the skeleton isn’t fooling Andrew Minyard. Not anymore.

But the skeleton isn’t awake, deep in unrestful sleep from the drugs circulating in his veins. Truth be told, the man sitting in the passenger side next to Andrew more closely resembles a corpse at this point. Dark skin pallid, lips chewed to the blood, Kevin Day hasn’t shaken so hard since Riko Moriyama made him. He sits on his hands to still the tremblings limbs but its in vain. A round of applause for the moment, though: he’s yet to pass out along with the sack of bones in the backseat. Vasovagal Syncope. Pronounced: Vay-zoh-VAY-gul SING-kuh-pee. Self-treatable, self-diagnosable. Not so self-controllable, however. Andrew knows all too much about the condition. It’s a rather common one, in fact, yet rare know even the name. But Minyard’s unmistakable memory is only due to his own condition.

Condition. Kuhn-di-shn. Three syllables. Three men. Three lies. The lie is a condition of life, isn’t that what Nietzsche proclaimed? A lie in itself, or the one steadfast truth?

Andrew curses his own spiraling mind, blames the red bull, and self-destructively downs another mouthful of the shit.

Kevin, for his part, stares ahead at the road Andrew’s flying through like a desert storm, eyes the evidence of his distress. His blood thrums all too self-aware in his veins, fast and unsteady. He thinks of too many things, and nothing all at once, distracted by his own blood-shaken duress.

The human condition, of all things, can be summed up in a drop of blood. His blood, Andrew’s blood, the blood of the Nile and Yangtze and the Danube. Show a man a drop of blood and what do you see? The ineffable chaos of the cosmos, naked and squirming.

Funny how the truth always seem to do that when you shine a light on it. 

Kevin bites his nails, slaps the near empty can of red bull away from Andrew’s frown, and watches as the passing vehicles’ headlights swim over Neil’s face through the reflection in the car’s window.

Kevin closes his eyes, aware enough to register the brush of Andrew’s hand over Kevin’s thigh. It’s only for a moment—less than that, even.

But it’s there. And it’s real.

And of all the uncertainties hanging in the air between them, Kevin has that to hold on to.

It’s not until they’ve reached their godforsaken destination that the thought occurs to Kevin of where they are even heading. Through the shock and awe of the last hour, only barely made better by the knowledge Neil isn’t actually dying (and not at all helped by Andrew’s adamant insistence that Neil could not, under any circumstances, be taken to a hospital—an assertion that still, despite Kevin’s attempts at self control, boils Kevin’s blood because _damn it Andrew, Neil needs real medical help, not your sorry excuse for first aid_ ), Kevin somehow finds the ability to ask, “How do you know his address?”

Neil had told the pair that he lived off campus a while ago, but Kevin never heard any mention of just where Neil found housing. Neil hadn’t offered the information, and Kevin hadn’t pressed, even though he was beyond curious how Neil gained the ability to escape the dorms.

At Foxborough, all students technically _have_ to stay in a dorm if they attend the school full time. It’s a legal requirement all students agree to in the tome-like contract they sign at the start of each year. It’s a strange mandate if you’re not used to it, but intended as a safety precaution. Fox claims the safety is for the sake of the students, since the university’s population consists of some of the wealthiest and most powerful heirs throughout the world—and not _my-father-is-the-king-of-Bahrain_ wealthy, but _my-father-is-the king-of-the-Slavic-black-market_ wealthy.

In reality, however, the precautions are more for the safety of the administration; keeping tabs on the students 24/7 is a “sure way” to prevent any of the high risk students from committing…well, high risk crimes.

Not that the prevention always works, that is.

And not that all students follow the dorm-life requirement either, though it’s more rare than not to do so, surprisingly. But again, when has the law ever mattered in the face of unadulterated wealth? All it really takes is a student to throw a big enough tantrum, get their mommy or daddy involved—or their sponsors, if their parents are out of the picture—and tah-dah. Penthouse living two blocks from Fox.

Neil certainly doesn’t live in a penthouse, though, Kevin can already tell. In the dark of night, it’s near impossible to make out any distinguishable features of the apartment complex Andrew has brought them to, but the division is much more mundane—average—compared to the alternative most Foxborough students adopt if and when they manage to get around the dorm mandate.

The glow of a few streetlights offers minimal guidance, casting a slate filled shadow over the blonde’s face when he leans out of the car’s door to punch in the gate code.

“A little birdie told me,” Andrew says in response to Kevin’s question, mouth thin when the gate’s lock device rejects the code. He leans out further and tries again. This time it works and the metal gate stutters open automatically, pulled by invisible strings.

“And the gate code?”

Andrew clicks his tongue. “Parrots.”

Kevin’s brow crinkles but he offers no other retort to Andrew’s cryptic, customary answer. In the backseat, Neil shifts against the upholstery in his unconscious state, mouth parted slightly and cheeks burning. They don’t have to touch him to know he has a fever.

When he makes it through the gates and into the third lot of the complex, Andrew cuts the wheel and turns into the first empty parking space. Shifting into park, he stalls the vehicle, engine idling. For a moment no one moves, save for Neil’s slight tremors in his fitful sleep. An imperceptible being disturbs one of the complex’s outdoor lights and a beam of midnight sun flashes across Andrew’s face. Blue and through.

But is what Andrew said, Kevin wonders as he looks back at Neil through the rearview mirror, ever true?

These late night doubts may one day be the death of him, but for now, Kevin only cares about keeping alive the skeleton sleeping in the back seat. He reaches for the car handle, and as if on cue, Andrew does the same on his side. But before Kevin has the chance to swing a foot outside the vehicle, he hesitates, meeting Andrew’s eyes over the center console and the wick is set alight. Within a second, Andrew’s leaning back over to pull Kevin in by the neck. Kevin moves willingly, a current flowing with the stream, and allows Andrew to replace Kevin’s breath supply with his own. Kevin inhales, and its Andrew in his lungs, its Kevin’s skeleton bruisedly aware of itself being manhandled gloriously under Andrew’s own. Kevin exhales, and its Neil in the backseat, dead to the world but alive—so _achingly_ alive in Kevin and Andrew’s veins.

Andrew pulls back long enough to say, _“He’s breathing,”_ before hurtling into Kevin’s orbit once more.

Kevin thinks, _Breathe. Breathe._ We’re _still breathing._

But the spirits in the air know how this story Ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the song "silence" by before you exit  
> Reference to Friedrich Nietzche  
> Reference to Laird Barron


	19. Your Body's a Message, Send My Regards to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars."  
> ~Bertolt Brecht
> 
> "Anything can happen: anything. Or nothing. Who can say? The world, monstrous, is made that way, and in the end consumes us all. Who am I, administered or no, to have the audacity to survive it?"  
> ~Brian Evenson, Fugue State

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initial notes: disclaimer, I have never danced in my life, unless u count two weeks of ballet when I was three years old akjshd so for any absolutely unrealistic choreography or wrong terms I may have used, I ask for ur forgiveness and patience in advance lol. Google definitions only get me so far sdkjfhk
> 
> Cw: continued themes of drugs, forced usage and the side effects/comedown of such, canon typical mentions of violence

I.

The dancer takes the stage in the same manner she walks the earth: quiet, reverent, assured. She pauses in the center of the wooden height, the lone ray of light illuminating her stoic form.

The audience holds its breath.

Danseuse releases her’s.

The song begins.




_“Nix. What’s the status?”_

_“I told you not to call me that. And arrived.”_

_“Apologies. But are you sure?”_




The trills of light, melancholic piano filter in through invisible speakers. Chopin’s Nocturne op. 9 no. 2 slowly but surely engulfs the auditorium as Danseuse begins her piece.




_“What do you take me for? Stupid? Of course I have the package.”_

_“No, not that. Are you sure I can’t call you that? It’s so much better than your stupid—”_




Assuming third position, Danseuse places her feet in _croisé_ and lifts her arms obediently. Tilting her head mournfully to the right, her white feathered mask glows under the stage light. A model of angelic grace, but so very fallen.

The notes of the piano suspend, hanging tethers, and Danseuse closes her eyes.




_“I will have you murdered, Boyd. I have my means.”_

_“Ha.”_




First arabesque comes next, and Danseuse moves her arms in artificial flight. If she could grow wings and escape, she would have a lifetime ago. But her wings have been cut for a long time now, and there’s nowhere left to go.

The woman watching in the audience doesn’t know it, but she’s the reason that the angel on stage dances on, rather than joining her heavenly host once more.




_“Boyd?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Back to business.”_




Body lowering fluidly into a part-kneel, back arched and one leg bowed straight, Danseuse allows the descending waterfall of notes to wash away her present worries. All thoughts about OCRA, about Joseph, about the…No. Danseuse pushes the mission away. There’s nothing she can do to change the inevitable. She can only dance, and hope the music never ends.




_“Oh, right, then. Well, if you’re sure about the package—don’t start—Boss wants it implemented now.”_

_“Excuse me?”_




Allison Reynolds doesn’t dare blink as the sole light ahead gradually fades into an even glow across the entire stage, revealing a mass of _danseurs_ to accompany and eventually integrate with the original woman. Raising _en pointe_ , they move in unity, a flight of doves spiraling in tempo.

But the auditorium is cold and the air burns a chill so Allison risks a blink—just one.

And the dancers stop.




_“You heard me. We can’t afford to waste time.”_

_“You…You’re really one to talk about wasting time, Matthew. I swear to God—“_

_“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. The sooner it’s taken care of, the sooner I’m off your back. And the Boss, mine.”_




A pause in the piano; now, soft violin filters in. Bodies still and poised, the dancers angle their heads together stage left. Then the piano returns, short and staccato. Starting from the far right, the first dancer pirouettes, and the domino effect is set in motion. Dancer after dancer turns in tandem to the next, a second separating each succession. At the end of the line, Danseuse finishes the chain, indistinguishable from the others save for one incurable tell.

Even with the mask, it’s impossible to hide the six inch scar splitting her face in two.




_“What’s my raise again for my trouble?”  
_

_“You make me laugh, Kate. Your life is your raise.”_




Chopin carries on, oblivious to his swaying victims. _Con Forza_ is the current M.O., but the dancers move in opposition to Chopin’s demands. They _plié_ in unison, as calm and graceful as the innocent spirits they represent.

Danseuse’s heart beats rebelliously, syncopated against the gentle current of her peers.




_“Don’t fuck with me, Boyd.”_

_“Nothing to fuck with. You know as well as I The Family owns you. Owns us all. Finish your side of the deal, and we all move on. Happy and whole.”_




First to fourth to second position, and the dancers pulse. A girl to the left of Danseuse momentarily wobbles but recovers just in time.

Danseuse swallows.




_“The Family has nothing on me nor my comrades. I work for—“_

_“Your damn vegetable, yeah, I know. Trust me when I say this, Nix. The Family has more say in your wellbeing than your own boss can dream of.”_




The audience watches on politely, unaware and oh so stupid. Ignorance is bliss, some would think. They’re the same rich, detached souls to laugh through their teeth the rest of the old, propagated illusion—freedom is slavery _(dance, oh dance, oh dance)_ , war is peace ( _now bow, now bow, now bow),_ life is safe _(repeat, then repeat, always repeat)._

The wannabes in their corduroy cages shed false tears and the gold and opal worker bees stifle bored yawns. Allison leans forward in her seat, uncomfortably aware of her own existence. For once, she’s not acting.




_“Bullshit. Ngoek has—“_

_“Ngoek is nothing. And so are you. And so is Joseph. And so are Joseph’s boy toys._

_And so am I. The Family is It, Nix. The sooner you learn that—accept that—the safer you’ll be. Safer we’ll all be.”_




The music continues, insistent in its completion. The cadenza rings confident, and for once the dancers follow their mark: a virtuosic display, the dancers jump as one, arms extended like the crucified Yeshua. For a second, a breath, an infinite pause, they’re frozen in midair as the Bb chord rings true.

Then the second is over and the air returns, the dancers smoothly falling into a _demi-plié…_




_“You know, you can be a real bastard when you want to be, Boyd.”_

_“Don’t sound so amused. I have a reputation to keep.”_

_“Sure, sure. Not my will but your’s be done, and all that shit.”_

_“Exactly. Glad to know we’re in agreement.”_




…Except for Danseuse. She’s back at stage center, and as her fellow puppets bend around her, Danseuse falls boneless to the ground, strings cut. The soft light collects itself until shining directly onto her splayed body, leaving the rest of the congregation to fend for itself in darkness.

Danseuse breathes slowly, light enough to be mistaken for dead.




_“Is that all, then?”_

_“I have an arrangement tomorrow morning. With Day.”_

_“And?”_

_“I thought you’d do well to know that.”_

_“If it isn’t my business, I don’t care.”_

_“Oh, my dear Kate. Nothing is your business. And yet.”_




The dancers move closer to Danseuse, a mimicry of comfort. Allison is no longer the only one peering desperately toward the stage, interest and intrigue finally replacing previous apathy.

Her strings are cut, but Danseuse fulfills her role perfectly. The octave jumps, and the last of the trilling notes play out, suspended over the cliff. When the last note sounds, F sharp breaking across the cautious stage, the waves are set forward.




_“'And yet.’”_

_“Yes. I can’t think of anything else at the moment, to be honest.”_

_“Thank God. If you unfortunately do, you know the number.”_

_“I do. And you know your orders. Adieu,_ renarde rouge _. And good luck.”_




Fickle then rising to tidal, the waves swell. One by one the dancers fall around Danseuse. The closest to her barely breathing form collapse first, then the next, and the next. The ripple drowns even the farthest, and as the last note fades to silence, the mass of men and women and those in between fade along with it.

Danseuse holds her breath. One second, two.




**_“_ ** _And Kate?_

_Try not to die_ **_._ ** _”_




Three seconds hit, and Renee Walker allows the audience’s applause to deafen the sound of her still beating heart.

II.

_The ravens are a terror, but he fears the darkness more._

_Pools of grey and black and white and gore sludge out from Neil’s hands, his eyes, his mouth. His scars reopen, a self-weilded dagger slicing across every wound and every once healed reminder of what he had survived. The ravens laugh, and Neil, unwillingly, laughs with them._

_He doesn’t think he’ll survive this._

_It’s not just darkness though, that beckons to him with its tapered claws. It’s the still wind, the mark of a timeless but forgotten grave. Soil that stales, overgrown weeds and dandelions sprouting from the aftermath of his buried soul._

_Behind the ravens, two figures stand, waiting. Neil tries to ask what business they have, but the ravens see the opening and plunge. Feathers and fowl attack his already ruined face, desperate for any chance to tear him open from the inside out. The sad irony is that Neil allowed this to happen in the first place. He knew what talking to those figures would do. He knew the ravens would destroy any connection Neil ever made. Buried bodies don’t deserve companions. Buried bodies swallow the dirt._

_Neil laughs around a mouthful of broken birds and the darkness tells him what he already knows._

_“Never—“_

_“Never—“_

“Never—“

Neil sits up with a shout tangled in his throat, the ending to a truth never fulfilled. A muffled whimper escapes him, and it takes until he’s managed to catch his breath to realize he’s not alone. There’s someone watching him close by.

Not someone. _Two_ someone’s standing in the doorway of his room.

Neil’s eyes dart for the curtained window. No ravens. No more.

“What are you doing here?” He rasps to the familiar figures. His voice is shot and, noticing a glass of water on his bedside, reaches to take a sip. He should’ve learned his lesson the first time, but there’s no lesson to be made when it comes to this last refuge.

If he can’t trust Andrew or Kevin, Neil rather not have a reason to trust anything anymore. Or care.

“Hospice,” Andrew says to Neil, blank-faced. Next to him, Kevin nudges Andrew’s elbow with a frown.

“How are you feeling?” Kevin asks. Neither make any move to come closer into Neil’s room but stand just outside as if awaiting permission.

Neil’s room. In his apartment. His apartment that’s heavily locked and guarded with eight different combination sets and three various code systems in place, not to mention a fingerprint scan.

“How—“ Neil swallows, throat burning—“the fuck did you get in here?”

What he does not ask is how they knew _how_ to get here. He never told them his—

When Andrew speaks, his voice is measured, though the shadows under his eyes reveal his tension. “What,” he says slowly. “How. Why. When. Is that all?”

“Where,” Kevin adds unhelpfully. Andrew’s lips twitch.

Neil tries to glare, but it falls flat. Dazed.

“Your locks are not impenetrable,” Andrew says to Neil’s question, contrite as ever. 

Neil allows the pool of water to sit in his mouth while he digests that, unsure how to respond. The fact of the matter is that his locks, secured to him by The Family, are _supposed_ to be impenetrable. But of all the worries that should appear, that his last line of defense (save for Dasha or Tolstushka who are rather murderous when they’re in the mood) is in fact vincible, all are near quelled by the murmur brewing in his chest as he takes in the sight of Andrew and Kevin across from his bed. His heart is a wildfire, encouraged by their presence like oxygen to the flames.

“Eidetic memory,” Kevin’s saying, and bringing Neil out of his thoughts. “Don’t take it personally. Andrew memorized all my codes a week after we met.”

Except for the fact Andrew should never have received such information in the first place. Neil decides not to mention that, not yet. He’s doesn’t even know the cause for his own hesitation, either.

But now it’s Andrew’s turn to scoff, though the gesture doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If Neil were a breath stupider than he already was, he might call Andrew’s expression in the face of Kevin’s attempt-at-a-whisper-but-slightly-louder-than-such gentle. But even Neil’s not that far gone.

His throat feels scraped raw and Neil has to suppress the urge to throw up. He tries to steady the nausea but by the concerned look on Kevin’s face and the artificially neutral one on Andrew’s, he’s not doing a great job of it.

“Sleep,” Andrew says. “We will talk when you wake up.”

Neil wants to say he’s already awake but even with his eyes open, he’s not entirely convinced. The table clock on his bedside reveals it’s barely past three in the morning. With whatever shit is still left in Neil’s system, he doesn’t have the energy to fight Andrew’s words nor Neil’s own weighty want to fall back into slumber.

Though he doesn’t want to dream, some side effects are impossible to avoid. 

“You’re safe, Neil,” Kevin tells him. Neil doesn’t know why Kevin would say such a thing.

Twisting in bed so that his back turns to them, daring the ravens once more, he murmurs, “You don’t have to lie to me.”

He doesn’t think they hear it. He’s half dead in his dreams already.

III.

When Neil awakes again, he’s uncomfortably aware of a weight on his head, lifting off before running through his mess of curls in repetition. Unfortunately for both of them, Neil doesn’t realize just what this weight belongs to nor what such weight means until after he’s pulled the handheld khukuri on Kevin, who jumps from the bed with a shout.

“ _Merde_.” Kevin’s back hits the eggshell wall in his haste to retreat from the crooked blade. The next word, no doubt a panicked curse, hasn’t yet left his mouth when Andrew’s already in the doorway, a dagger of his own disengaged in his left hand. Kevin lets out another yelp.

“Can we—“ a strangled huff—“for the love of God. _Calm down with the knives_ ,” Kevin shouts about ten decibels louder than necessary for—Neil checks the clock—six in the morning.

Andrew’s gaze slides between Neil on the bed still clutching his blade to Kevin at the wall, chest rising and falling but miraculously unscathed. If Kevin’s reflexes had been two seconds slower, there’d be at least one recurved edge in his arm. Thankfully, Neil hadn’t yet grabbed for his twin blade, which still waits obediently underneath the bed’s other pillow.

“Alright?” Andrew says simply. Kevin and Neil both nod after a slight hesitation. Kevin knows about Andrew’s sharper preferences, and while Neil’s habits shouldn’t have taken Day by so much surprise, they still did, nevertheless. Andrew retracts his dagger into an out of sight sheath under his jacket and Neil reluctantly slides his own back into position.

Based on the eye bags and tenser-than-usual demeanors, Neil reckons neither Kevin nor Andrew have slept at all, and Neil can guess he himself doesn’t fair much better. He’s still wearing the clothes from the night before, the shirt Andrew had given him. Again, Neil finds himself wondering just how bad the night before must have gone that the other two felt the need to not only drag Neil home, but also break into his flat (does that count as breaking in?), _and_ stick around.

“Do you...” Kevin coughs, gesturing towards the pillow where the khukuri now rests “—Always? Every night?”

Neil pieces together the fractured question and nods again, slower. He still hasn’t spoken but inside he’s shaken, aware of just how close a call that had been.

If Kevin hadn’t moved faster—

Before Neil can try to connect together some coherent apology, Kevin’s beaten him to it. “I shouldn’t have touched you,” he’s saying. “You just looked—at peace, for once. I’m—”

“Stop,” Neil cuts in. Of all fucking things, how is it fair that Kevin thinks he’s the one who should be sorry? Neil’s too a mess to verbalize such thoughts but he subconsciously shakes with frustration at the entire situation. It’s a parallel of the same situation once lived at Wreck, but the familiar loss is only doubled.

Except Kevin doesn’t realize Neil’s anger is internalized and the former’s mouth drops open to deliver something equally as misconceiving when Andrew interrupts. “You both apologize like the world depends on it. Save the world for later. Kevin?”

Kevin releases a shaky breath. “I’m okay.”

“Neil?”

“Fine.”

Andrew nods once as if to himself before walking over towards Neil’s bed. The latter doesn’t question the knife Andrew had dislodged and retracted just as naturally as breathing, and there’s probably something to be said about the understanding that passes between two individuals who relate to such similar realities. But with Andrew’s deliberate gaze fixed on Neil, there’s nothing Neil can think to say that’s sufficient. So he just breathes. And waits.

“What,” Andrew says after an indiscernible pause, “do you remember?”

Neil blinks and considers this. He remembers many things: a broken down car and two gallons of purposefully spilled kerosene. His father on a throne, a false god among falser men. A bullet in his shoulder, a blow to his childhood. Stuart’s cane flying across the Essex manor’s dining hall, its impact impossible to avoid as it slammed Neil to the floor. Stuart himself fallen on the tile, blood as dark as the Sauvignon he sipped on warm nights.

So many points to remember. Mary’s dark hair curling around her face like a veil. Neil learning how to clean a revolver, gun oil staining his fingers when the rag slipped from his shaky hands. Fists and knuckles beating the nerves out of his body. Lying on the linoleum floor and realizing that the stars look just as overwhelming whether dying slowly or living quickly.

_I am made of memories._

“Not much,” Neil says, and it’s funny because it’s not a lie either. Of all the things to remember, he’s missing so much more. Was Mary’s voice as alto and deep as he thinks it, or has he already forgotten how it would shift higher in pitch with each change of dialect she picked up on the run? Is the Atlantic truly warmer than the Pacific, or did Neil imagine the chill in his bones no matter where he went after his mother burned? Is the sky always that blue, or does it darken each time Neil shuts his eyes to the world?

He can’t remember no matter how hard he tries. 

“Little fox,” Andrew says. “Do not lie to me.”

Neil scowls. “Don’t call me that.”

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“No, I—I don’t know,” Neil says. He fists the sheets in his hands before throwing the blanket off of him, muscles tense. “You brought me to that club. I ruined your night. Typical Friday, right?”

“No,” Kevin cuts in where he still stands at the wall, though devoid of the alarm he’d previously exhibited. “No, that’s not—None of what happened is-is _typical_. Someone drugged your drink.”

A shadow passes over Andrew’s face. The image of Andrew fallen in his dorm, body racked with lethal drugs and vulnerable to the entire world, appears in Neil’s mind.

But Andrew’s thinking of another time, one that predates Neil’s at Foxborough. Poisoning isn’t as rare as some think it is.

And Kevin has no idea just how wrong he is.

Mere weeks before, Andrew would’ve sworn to do anything to keep Kevin in the dark, invincibly and blissfully ignorant. But the End is coming, and Andrew isn’t oblivious to the fact that what’s brewing in the near future may be completely out of his control. 

But knowing isn’t the same as accepting, so Andrew pushes the shadows away for now. Avoiding, always avoiding.

“Neil,” Andrew presses, and it’s as near as begging as he’ll ever get in this life. Because if the people who drugged Andrew are the ones who drugged Neil—

“It’s hard, okay?” Neil again reaches for the glass of water that’s been topped off since the last time he was awake. The nausea he’d felt earlier is still there, but he pushes that down with a long swallow. “We...I pissed you off. I tried to leave. I was just going to get water, and...” he narrows his brows, mind reeling. He knows he’s forgetting something, but what?

“Who said we were pissed?” Kevin says. “I don’t remember that part.”

Andrew’s gaze flickers on Neil and Neil shrugs. He remembers the hours before leading up to the club. Neil wanting to tell Kevin—tell Kevin everything, that The Family was after him; Kevin’s face when he realized Andrew and Neil wouldn’t shed light on just what the fuck was going on; Andrew’s fierce message, his kiss that was meant to shut Neil down yet Neil could do nothing but feel as though the kiss were meant for him too.

Self-destructive dreams.

“I’ve never not managed to piss you off,” Neil says, and even though it’s directed solely for Andrew they both know how weak it is.

“Your drink,” Andrew says with an edge and ignoring Neil’s words. In retrospect, it’s a response in and of itself. But Andrew’s relentless.

Neil’s mouth is dry no matter how much water he sips. “What of it.”

Andrew makes a short, harsh sound in the back of his throat as if Neil’s existence, along with this entire conversation, is hopeless.

“Someone messed with it,” Kevin repeats from the background. His arms are crossed as he looks between Andrew’s back and Neil’s face and he wonders, “You really don’t remember?”

Neil’s had many of his drinks messed with before. By the time he was eleven, Neil had developed an impressive immunity to most household poisons. Nathan was a sick bastard, but you couldn’t claim that he wasn’t at least invested in his son’s ability to resist a standard assassination attempt. Stuart Hatford was, in many other ways, just as cruel, and lacing his nephew’s occasional cider with narcotics wasn’t beneath him to glean as much information as he could about the Butcher’s old empire. So when Neil hears Kevin’s assertion, he simply downs the rest of the water and waits for the nausea to catch up with him.

Memory loss. Motion sickness. Manic. Two out of the three side effects ain’t bad.

But it’s still gut wrenchingly annoying. Now that he’s more fully aware of what must have happened, Neil can sense the lingering tang of Cracker Dust on his tongue. The taste is not dissimilar to vinegar, but with an edge of salt and, possibly, chlorine.

“Who was it?” Neil says in lieu of a response. His voice is eerily neutral, borderline bored. As if he couldn’t care less about the fact he was drugged. It doesn't come as a surprise how fragile and fake his postering is.

“That,” Andrew says slowly, “is what we want to know.”

Composure crumbling like the dropped Decalogue, Neil snaps, “And how would I? I told you, I don’t remember. Call your fucking boss, maybe they know.”

Andrew’s eyes narrow a fraction of an inch but his reply is cut short by Kevin saying, “Who?”

“No one.”

Kevin blinks. “Andrew, what’s going on?”

There’s a moment of strained silence before Andrew tilts his head in Kevin’s direction and says lowly, “ _Paúse_.” He clenches a fist, releases it, and Kevin nods after some consideration. The word is a break in momentum, a signal to say, _“Do not push me for an answer right now.”_ It’s their safeword when nothing about the situation is safe _._

The first time Andrew had used it, Kevin had asked who sponsored Andrew and Aaron’s attendance at Foxborough. Andrew, never wanting to lie to him, not so directly, answered the only way he could: reprieve. Reprieve from the truth, for however long he could get away with it. Kevin, like always, accepted what little he was offered, and Andrew’s heart rattled treasonously in its cage for it. There’s only so many breaks Andrew can call for, though, amnesty from the truth about his job, before it all falls apart.

Kevin nods again, more to himself, and says, “Okay. Okay, fine.”

Turning back to Neil, Andrew lifts a palm in warning. “Careful, Neil,” he intones. “This is not a game you want to play with me.”

Neil would laugh if it wouldn’t hurt his throat so much. “Game? What _game_ do you think I’m playing at?” With shaky bones he slides out of bed and to his feet, biting a snarl at the shorter man. “If I knew what happened, I’d tell you.”

Andrew glowers. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care,” Neil returns. He looks between Kevin and Andrew before saying, “And I don’t know why either of you care, either.”

“Do not,” Andrew says, “try to put words in our mouths.”

Neil shakes his head, snickering as he stumbles past the pair to the door. “I don’t need to. You say more than enough, as is.”

“Neil,” Kevin tries, but Neil won’t listen. His skin is burning from the inside out and the only thing keeping him from throwing up or passing out again is sheer willpower. He’s trying to remember—he’s _trying_ —but all he smells is smoke and oil and it’s enough to set his mind alight.

“Get out of my flat.” The words slip from his mouth, voice quiet and razor-sharp around the edges.

Kevin says, “What?”

Neil detours to the small bathroom on his left and stops to open a bottle of mouthwash. If he has to live with the expired taste of dust for one more second he might just go insane. “Out. _Vybirat’sya_.” He takes a mouthful and swishes it around, staring dead-eyed into the cracked mirror, then spits the mint froth back into the sink. “Now.”

Andrew closes his eyes for a full second, mouth thin, before turning slowly on his heel and stalking after Neil. Kevin follows behind, albeit tentative.

Neil’s already moving toward the center of the apartment, the other two men on his heel. When they reach the kitchen, Neil turns the fountain tap on and splashes some water over his face. Tolstushka, who’d previously been lounging half-asleep on the counter, jumps up in surprise with a hiss.

Andrew starts, “I have let you run from this long enough—“

“Oh, you’ve _let_ me?”

The storm’s been brewing for far too long, and like all natural disasters, even the warnings haven’t been enough for the reality. Maybe this is the Manic, the third side effect Neil initially thought he’d avoided. He whirls around on Andrew, water drops flying. Neither pay attention to the mess save for the cat and Kevin. The former scrambles away from the flying droplets, fur erecting in alarm, while the latter grabs for a dish towel and hands it to Neil. Ignoring Tolstushka and patting at his face with the towel, Neil points a finger at Andrew with his free hand. Even past the slight ridiculousness of the situation, Andrew is mildly surprised by the arctic chill bleeding out from Neil’s expression.

“How fucking _generous_ of you. Should I write you a thank you note? Send some fucking _flowers_?” Neil steadies himself on the kitchen island as he shudders in a breath, stomach turning.

“You should be grateful I have yet to turn you in—“

“Turn me in,” Neil repeats with venom. He throws the towel aimlessly, which just so happens to be in the direction of Tolstushka. The cat hisses again and paws at the offending material. “ _Turn me in_. You really have the nerve, Andrew Joseph—“

Some people use fists. Others use knives. Neil Josten uses words, and the punch is just as deep as if he had wielded a blade.

Andrew starts to step back but, as if changing his mind just as reflexively, changes course and barrels his body forward. Neil simply closes his eyes and prepares for the attack, knowing full well he deserves it. Maybe its the poison left in his system shutting his survival instincts down but he doesn’t really care. Not anymore.

The pain never comes, though. It’s worse, because when Neil open his eyes, heart running south, Andrew’s just… _there_. He’s there, and his eyes are dark, and his shoulders shake at his sides where he nurses tampered fists. And Kevin has come up next to them both, mouth parted and forehead creased, silent and shocked and somber.

“Nathaniel,” Andrew says, but it’s barely a whisper. The eye of the storm. “Who are you running from?”

Andrew asks _who_ but he never asks _why_. _Why_ is someone after Neil. But there’s no reason to ask when the answer, for the OCRA agent, is obvious. There’s more than enough people who’d do everything to have the son of the Butcher’s head on a platter.

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Neil seethes.

“I do not believe you."

“You—“ Neil cuts off, framing his face with his index fingers and thumbs. “Why? Why should it matter? Why don’t you just turn me in, then, and cash in your paycheck early? You _despise_ me.”

Kevin’s eyes narrow, lost to the entire meaning of the conversation, and Andrew says flatly as he takes one last step forward, “I already told you. _Do not put words in my mouth.”_

Maybe it’s the morning light slowly turning the slate sky into a pale glow through the open blinds—Andrew or Kevin must have opened them, Neil thinks distractedly. Neil always keeps them closed—and dissolving any shred of social conformity. Maybe it’s the fact that Neil’s spent more time around Kevin and Andrew that he thinks he deserves so he should throw it all away with one go. Maybe it’s his desperation, because of that impending, horrifying truth that Neil has yet to truly let sink in. The truth that he let his defenses down enough to get fucking _drugged_ and if Andrew and Kevin hadn’t been there, Neil may have kicked the buckets monthsearlier than planned.

Or maybe it’s because Neil, at the root of it all, is so damn predictable, and old habits die hard because he lowers his voice and says, “Would you rather I replace those words instead?”

Sometimes the fox outsmarts the hunter, and other times the fox simply bullshits his way to freedom instead.

This time, neither of these scenarios happen.

Because the hunter surrenders, and Andrew stumbles back into the fridge like he’s been shot.

A bullet would have hurt less.

“I don’t know who’s after me,” Neil says much more calmly than he feels. He forces himself to ignore the tear in his heart seeing Andrew lurch back, and to ignore the sight of Kevin blinking slowly as if in a daze at the quick twists and turns in conversation. “I don’t know why they’ve chosen now to make their move.”

“But I do know,” he continues after a pause, “that I am so goddamn tired of running. So you both _need to leave_. Now. Because when the crossfire begins, I will not be the reason you get hit.”

There’s silence for a good few seconds. Andrew’s gaze on Neil burns hot enough to rival the Louvainbut Neil stares adversely onward toward a crack in the marble countertop.

Then, a loud, astounded scoff breaks the quiet and they both turn to Kevin, who’s shaking his head in amazement.

“You two will absolutely be the death of me,” he says. “And you have the nerve to call _me_ dramatic?”

“Neil.” Kevin turns to look at the shorter man. A slow but steady beam of light rises from the open blinds and highlights the curvature of Kevin’s tired but amused face. He’s still wearing the black translucent shirt he’d put on for the club, but its wrinkled and unpressed state only adds to the homely effect. With every breath Neil spends trying to push Kevin and Andrew away, the exhale pulls him back in, closer than before. “I don’t pretend to understand half the shit you and Andrew talk about. But if you think there’s anyway in hell we’re just— _leaving you?”_ He smirks, a bit sad around the edges. “Fuck, I thought you were bad with French, but apparently you need some help with English too.”

Kevin steps forward and, when Neil makes no move to pull away, lifts his hands to carefully cradle Neil’s face. Neil restrains the urge to push off, because if this is the last time he’s allowed to be this close to them, he’s damn well going to savor it.

“We’re. Not. Leaving.”

Neil says, “But—“

“And neither are you.” Kevin takes a breath. “So there’s someone after you. I won’t lie and say it’s okay. Of course it’s not. But we’ll get through this. Together.”

“Kevin—“

“The Moriyama’s were after me for so long,” Kevin continues and Neil’s heart, if it weren’t already battered, could just fucking _shatter_ at that. “Fox helped save me. We can get through this, too.”

Neil wants to scream. Fox didn’t do shit to save Kevin. Andrew, if what Neil learned was true—and Neil knows it’s true because Ichirou’s sources are never wrong—saved Kevin. Andrew vouched for Kevin to OCRA, to win amnesty for Day. OCRA agreed, and they all thought they won. They thought The Family was off their backs.

But The Family never leaves a member behind. Dead or alive, wanted or not, The Family will retrieve who belongs to them.

The funny thing about tears is that you don’t always feel them. But you certainly know just what’s causing them. A sole tear marks its way down Neil’s cheek when he looks up at Kevin’s stubborn, soft smile, but he doesn’t even realize he’s crying to begin with. All he knows is that he wants—

“Tell us, Neil. What do you _really_ want?”

_(To leave, to escape, to run away to run away to run away don’t want to run away anymore)_

It’s a loaded question. But it’s really, fundamentally, a simple answer.

Neil shudders in a breath, feeling the dips and curves of Kevin’s skin against his face curl with the motion. “To stay.”

_(To stay, to remain, to be okay for all of us to be okay just want you both to be okay)_

Andrew says from where he remains backed against the fridge, “Then fucking _stay_.”

So many times, so many places in history where the fate of the future rested in such obstinate hands. Patroclus on the Grecian battlefield, already doomed for death despite every warrior he cut down. Horatio: one soldier against three hundred; Jeanne d’Arc: one woman against a nation. The hundreds, thousands, millions of nameless, faceless individuals all lived and dead and gone, all breathed and marched and burned out of the life they once lived.

Neil and Kevin and Andrew are no gods, but the same flesh and blood repurposed throughout every millennia. One day they too will embrace the dirt from which they came, but for today, their hearts are furnished towards another end, another goal, insistent to not repeat the mistakes of their forebears.

Neil could run, but his future is inevitable regardless. Why does he fight what he can’t control? Why does he run from that which he’s destined to return? Why stay stubborn?

Why not just… _stay?_

There’s two beings on his shoulders. An angel and a demon, and he thinks the latter has the first one beat.

Neil doesn’t feel the tears and he doesn’t quite hear Kevin’s next, soft-spoken question, as if the latter fears any higher raise in volume would disturb the rising sun into setting prematurely. But Neil can read lips and that’s really all he’s looking at because he’s starting to understand what this moment means in a way he’s never understood the present before: with shaky, wondering clarity, he understands. And he thinks it should frighten him. To an extent it very well does, but he’s already scared out of his mind. He’s been terrified since the day Ichirou dragged him from the Essex manor, since he was forced to swear allegiance to yet another false idol, but—

But that doesn’t stop the one affirmative syllable from escaping Neil’s mouth when he answers Kevin, painfully honest. And then—and _finally_ then, because like Rome, and like Etemenanki, and like Alexandria, Neil is just as fated to fall from such great heights into this inevitable reality—

Because then Kevin’s lips are on Neil’s and Neil’s eyes are closed because darkness isn’t as lonely when you share it with another and Neil thinks, _This._

_This will be my home. For as long as they’ll have me._

It doesn’t last long. The kiss ends with a small, content hum from Kevin and a quieter revelry from Neil. The only disruption in the entire apartment comes from the too loud sound of Neil’s own racing heart and Tolstushka, now joined by Dasha on the marble counter, licking her paw as if nothing momentous has occurred.

And maybe that’s the case. Maybe this moment, this second of revolution, is nothing more than an unfettered blink in the history of everything. Most everything has happened before, has it not? This story has already been told—through the eyes of innumerable others, through the lips of countless others, through the minds and bones and now silent hearts of an undocumented manifold. This love is not new, and nor is this—is _this_ —as simple as love. This is so much more, so…

_(Mais nous nous aimions d'un amour qui était plus que de l’amour.)_

History may call them trivial. But to the ones that matter, to themselves, this very breath shared together is a first. A triumph. A victory.

It’s inevitable.

“Wow,” Kevin says as appropriately quiet as the moment seems to call for. He leans back from Neil’s lips to instead rest their foreheads together, keeping eye contact with Neil even as he addresses Andrew, the latter still standing frozen by the fridge. “I know you, Andrew. I know you’re going to keep trying to avoid my questions.” Neil blinks slowly, silently cherishing the grasp of Kevin’s calloused palms cupping his jaw.

“But for the love of God,” Kevin continues, still not looking away from Neil, “stop trying to avoid _this_.”

Neil wonders what, if anything, Kevin and Andrew would have discussed about this arrangement. Andrew doesn’t seem anywhere near surprised at Kevin’s gesture, nor does he seem bothered—well, not with Kevin, at least. Andrew’s expression directed toward Neil, on the other hand, could rival Damascus steel—by the act.

Then again, are words always necessary? Case by case is different, and while for many the former may be true, Neil doesn’t quite believe that their situation is like the rest of the poor souls littering the earth. You’re not bound by spoken words to hear the language of the heart.

“There,” says Andrew much more loudly than appropriate, and effectively cutting apart Neil’s thoughts, “is no _this_. So long as he is involved.”

They say the watchman didn’t notice the iceberg until mere seconds before the impact. Neil feels like that now, irreversibly on a collision course a breath before it happens. Andrew’s words rip into his chest, hull irreparably damaged against the frozen barriers enacted all around.

“Andrew, I swear,” Kevin starts, finally looking towards his _nous_.

“Kevin—“

“He’s right,” Neil says, words falling thick from his mouth, bitter molasses. “I’m sorry, I—“

“Listen to me, you incapable idiot,” Andrew huffs. He steps away from the fridge, but his next words don’t match his soft gesture when he places his right hand over Kevin’s where it still rests enraptured around Neil’s cheek. Neil feels the two layered palms just as well as if they were all three skin to skin, and something cruel like hope bubbles in his sternum. “This is not about you. There can be nothing while _he_ is involved.”

Andrew’s gaze pierces into Neil’s and Neil, belatedly, understands.

_He_. Not Neil.

Ichirou.

Hull torn open. Now the waves rush in. Neil remembers the afternoon on the balcony, watching Kevin monologue while Andrew crept up behind him. Wondering, _how much, how much, how much do you know? How much will you drag out from me before the End?_

“ _Vy znayete,”_ Neil whispers, and that’s as much as he’s able to let out before the shaking erupts. The first whispers of panic—real panic—and the last traces of the dust work its way through Neil’s system. He starts coughing until he’s not sure if he’ll ever breathe again, but he gasps for air anyway as if desperation alone will allow him reprieve.

“Easy, Neil,” Kevin urges and Andrew mutters a curse. They’d stepped back to give Neil room, but at the first sign of Neil’s flailing arm, Andrew slips a hand around the nape of Neil’s neck to steady the man while Kevin offers his own to ground Neil’s.

When Neil manages to catch his breath, Andrew continues as if the previous minute never happened. “Does that really surprise you?”

Does it surprise Neil that Andrew’s caught on to everything? To his job, to his _hamartia_? Neil knows Andrew has his means, and in the line of work Andrew does, encountering The Family’s strings is anything but rare. Their reach extends over all. 

It’s not a surprise. Not really.

But it’s terrifying.

“No.” Neil drops his head, allowing the feel of Kevin and Andrew to surround him before they surely pull away for good. Andrew knows, so it’s only time before Kevin does too. After this spectacle, Andrew won’t be able to avoid the latter’s questions anymore. “No, it doesn’t.”

“I don’t know,” Kevin starts, exasperated as he looks between them, “what in hell you two are talking about. _Comme d’habitude.”_

“I know you hate me,” Neil says to Andrew. “And I need you both to leave—“

Kevin interrupts, “Not happening.”

“But do you think you could ever forgive me?” he finishes, rather proud of himself for not stumbling over the words in spite of his racing heart. “Or would you avoid that question too?”

Even if what we both know is true.

Andrew says, voice hoarse, “ _Neil_.”

Neil’s lips twitch in a self-deprecating smile. “Am I so beneath you?”

If Andrew were any other man in this situation, with these furnaced feelings kindling in his chest, he may have done a number of things. He might’ve punched Neil. He might’ve dragged Kevin away, kicking and screaming.

He might have just avoided the situation entirely.

He meant what he said, about Ichirou. So long as Neil follows orders from the head of The Family, _everything_ is too dangerous.While Andrew’s never met the man, and God forbid he ever do so, OCRA has supplied Andrew with more than enough information. Ichirou would no doubt use such a weakness against Neil if matters called for it. Human emotion is an incredible source of inspiration, as they say.

But Andrew is only himself, after all. And like everyone knows, old habits die hard. He’s no longer as self-destructive as he once was, but he’s not so self-preserving, either.

So he allows himself one last indulgence, knowing full well his temporary weakness is a lie and can’t possibly stop now that it’s begun. Leaning close enough to smell the traces of Neil’s mint mouthwash, he says, “I will only say this one last time: _Stop putting words in my mouth._ ”

But Neil doesn’t have to worry about that because he gets his answer after all when Andrew’s lips collide with his, all fire and fury and their breaths become determinably one.

_This_ , Neil thinks, eyes screwed shut and holding on to Kevin for dear life.

_This is how_ —Andrew’s tongue slips into Neil’s mouth and Neil doesn’t bother hiding the soft whimper that escapes him— _it must end._

Andrew’s kiss burns sharper than Mary’s old whiskey and Neil knows he’ll savor it for the rest of his life. Which isn’t saying much, considering the circumstances, but still.

Neil pulls away first to catch his breath, but it’s only a moment before they rejoin, and it’s honestly impossible to say who leaned back in first. Neil angles his head to the right and the kiss is deepened, entrenched, unavoidable. Andrew’s hand still encircling Neil’s neck clenches ever so slightly, unconsciously, but the motion still tears a gasp from Neil’s throat.

The Titanic sank, but Neil thinks he’ll float for awhile. 

In its purest form, this feeling, this unstable reality crafted of warm embers and angel’s breath, isn’t as surprising or loud as the stories and movies make it. It’s quieter, and sometimes expected a hundred breaths before it begins. Ever since the first day Neil came across the two, he could practically see the path leading to this moment. The question was, would he take the road less traveled? Or would he split at the fork and taper on alone, a wanderer until the very end?

But now that’s it’s all over (now that it’s starting, it’s starting, it’s _starting_ ), Neil realizes that no matter which path he took, they’d all lead here eventually. Andrew’s lips breathing one last dose of life into Neil’s lungs and Kevin’s grounding hands on Neil’s shoulder, Andrew’s back, is as inevitable as the rising sun to the east. Cherries dipped in honey could never be as sweet as this fragile moment. There’s a bitterness around the edges, though. That acidic aftertaste, knowing just how brittle every breath, every touch, every careful sign they exchange with each other is.

It just makes the flavor stronger.

Neil doesn’t want to think about how much he’s hurting Kevin and Andrew by giving them false hope. False hope in something—whatever this beautiful, tangled mess that they are is—that won’t survive as summer draws nearer.

That Neil won’t survive.

So he doesn’t think. He promises himself the same promise he told them: this is a goodbye, his _adieu douloureux._ It’s not enough _,_ nor will it ever be, but it has to for now, for today, until the end. He clenches his hands tighter in Kevin’s jacket, scarred fingers reveling in the soft fabric contrasted with Kevin’s firm torso underneath. Andrew pulls millimetres away just long enough to murmur a question, his voice resonating in Neil’s ear and Neil whispers, “ _Yes_ ,” before allowing his sunlit satellites to consume him once more.

_Yes._

For-ever. Ever. Ever.

Until the End.

IV.

Neil thinks, _I’m going to die._

Neil thinks, _Is it worth it, is it worth it?_

Neil thinks, _I don’t want_ this _to be worthless._

Neil thinks, _I don’t want to die._

Neil thinks, _But I will because they’re worth it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams until my voice is hoarse* did I ever mention I detest slow burns? like I really. really detest them asjpdoihufgay. and here I am. 19 chapters in. to a slow burn. yeehaw.
> 
> ANYWAYS UR WELCOME SKLDJHD
> 
> References to:  
> George Orwell’s 1984  
> maggie stiefvater’s the raven boys   
> Edgar Allan Poe The Raven, Annabel Lee  
> Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles  
> Helen Humphreys, The lost garden  
> Robert frost, the road not taken
> 
> renarde rouge: red vixen  
> выбираться. english Phonetic: Vybirat’sya: get out  
> вы знаете; phonetic: vy znayete: you know  
> Comme d’habitude: as usual  
> Mais nous nous aimions d'un amour qui était plus que de l’amour: but we loved with a love that was more than love  
> adieu douloureux: painfull farewell


	20. If You Talk Enough Sense Then You'll Lose Your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The human heart is a line, whereas my own is a circle, and I have the endless ability to be in the right place at the right time. The consequence of this is that I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both.”  
> ~Markus Zusak, 'The Book Thief'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: three very brief but graphic description of a death/head/throat injury due to being shot/stabbed. If you would like to skip those descriptions, skip the sentences bounded by an asterisk (*)   
> Brief mention of human trafficking, continued theme of illicit criminal activities.

I.

For the third time in one day, Neil wakes up with panic on his lips and confusion etched on his forehead.

Step one: surroundings.

Eggshell walls. Check. Mahogany table. Check. Slate couch. Also check.

Neil inhales slowly and counts to five. One second, two, three….

Neil exhales and sits up—

—Only to be met with the sight of Andrew peering intently at him from a kitchen barstool over the couch’s backside.

“What the—“ Neil starts and shakes his head vehemently. “No, okay? Creepy. That’s creepy, Andrew—“  
  
“Oh, get over yourself.” Andrew takes a sip from a chipped mug on the counter. He must have dug around in one of the cabinets. It’s the red and black one Neil had bought, of all things, as a birthday gift for himself. Not because mugs are inherently special, but for the exact opposite reason: their mundanity, how they’re so…reminiscent of life. Normal life.

There was nothing normal, rather, about an incredibly sleep-deprived OCRA agent still in nightclub attire watching Neil like a raven while the latter slept. Nothing.

“I was making sure,” Andrew says when he sets the cup down, “you were still breathing.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Andrew raises a near imperceptible brow. “Is your memory so beneath you?”

Neil blinks.

Eggshell walls. Mahogany table. Slate couch. Andrew.

Andrew. In Neil’s apartment. Drinking from Neil’s dish-ware.

Too many focal points, and within moments the events of the morning rush back to Neil.

“Oh, fuck.” He has to put his head down, bones weary. The dust hasn’t yet left his system entirely, and after going so long without contact to the drug, he’ll be lucky if he’s over the comedown within the next few days. “I remember.”

“Enough to know who you let screw with your drink?” Andrew drawls, almost mocking.

Neil lifts his head and—no doubt about it, definitely mocking.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I…” he rubs his face and, as if manifesting the act through his thoughts, murmurs a raspy thank-you when Andrew gets up and hands over the mug. It’s water, no surprise, and just like the morning, Neil doesn’t second-guess drinking the contents without reservations. If Andrew had wanted him dead, hell knows how many opportunities the man has had, even within this day alone.

“Where’s Day?” Neil asks after letting the burn in his throat settle. He can’t get the memories of the morning out of his head. Of yelling—near begging, let’s be honest—at Kevin and Andrew to leave. Of they’re refusal, they’re stubbornness, they’re…

Neil could lie to himself and say he can still taste the citrus shock of Kevin’s and Andrew’s lips on his, but the truth is, he can’t. The memory is like a lucid dream, where the weight feels real and sharp but deep down he knows it wasn’t real.

Except it was. It _was_ real, and that’s the agony, because already Neil has taken for granted that one moment’s reprieve.

And because he’s a selfish man, he wants more. He wants Kevin’s arms around him like a vice, he wants Andrew’s touch to burn like a brand. He wants them because he knows they won’t hurt him like he wishes they would. Because if they would push, if they would pull, if they would punch the air out of Neil’s lungs, maybe then Neil would have a fighting chance. Maybe then Neil wouldn’t mind life and her other deadly side effects. Maybe then Neil could run away with no more regrets, no more worries, no more hopes.

But he wants more, acid and sugar and all.

“Out,” Andrew says vaguely in response. He waits for Neil to drain the rest of the cup before retrieving it to, presumably, fill back up.

“You need to sleep,” Kevin had told Neil after they’d all pulled apart. Though separate, the minute ways they’d all shifted and swayed back and forth iwere not dissimilar to the axes, coordinates x and y and z just as vital for the existence of life as the next.

“I already slept,” Neil had said. But still he allowed Kevin to lead him to the couch, Andrew staring ahead at one of the cats in fake earnest.

“Sleep again. You look like shit.” Kevin had smiled, though he himself looked just as, if not more, exhausted. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Where?” Neil asks in the present, absently thumbing the blanket Kevin had earlier tried to coddle Neil with before Neil kicked him in retaliation. He might not be able to feel Kevin’s kiss, but he can hear Kevin’s snark laughter loud and clear.

“Out,” Andrew says again. Neil shrugs. Worth a shot.

“Fine, then. But are you going to tell me,” Neil leans against the couch, back to Andrew, “how you knew where I lived?”

The question of address isn’t the only problem—though it’s more than pressing. Three rotating knob locks, two deadbolts, a CAM lock, a fingerprint scan, and near seven sets of alarms secure just the front door to Neil’s apartment. That’s not including the various other security measures in place for the five windows littered throughout the place and the two balcony doors. In all respects, Andrew and Kevin shouldn’t have had even the slightest chance of finding nor getting into Neil’s apartment without Neil’s direction. And yet….they had. Dragged him inside and all, and even made themselves comfortable.

None of it made sense.

Andrew doesn’t respond for a good few minutes while he shuffles around in the kitchen and Neil decides to let him take his time. But just when the silence becomes annoying and Neil opens his mouth to repeat the question, Andrew says, “You leave tracks.”

Tracks.

“What do you mean?”

Andrew, having finished his business in the kitchen, walks back over to the living area and sets the mug down in front of Neil yet again, this time full of something hot and dark.

“Mail. Phone,” Andrew ticks off with his fingers, voice neutral as if bored but eyes so deathly amused. He adds, only the slightest hint of stale humor in his tone, “Ubers.”

“Technology is incredible these days,” he continues when Neil doesn’t speak. He rubs his jaw, and Neil finds himself fixated on the five o’clock shadow barely visible on the other man’s features. Not for the first time Neil wonders how much sleep, if at all, Andrew’s gotten since the night before. The threads of guilt in Neil’s chest are no longer foreign, but expected, at this point.

Until Andrew drops the metaphorical ball, hand stilling in a crescent along his cheek, and says (for once devoid of any riddles), “You thought you could send a package to a false address and not get caught. You still have to walk back home, do you not?

“Or your phone—did you assume no one would track it? It’s easy enough these days, even with all your petty firewalls. A fucking twelve year old could have done it. And the Uber. Of all things… I expected you to be smarter.”

Sleep-deprived Andrew talks a whole lot more than he does when fully awake, Neil notes. The latter stares at the black and red mug, now dripping hot condensation onto the mahogany wood. It looks like hot chocolate, and Neil would be damned to put that shit in his mouth.

Just like with Neil for Andrew, Andrew lets Neil take his time thinking of a response, but he can think of nothing adequate. It’s true, then. It’s all true—no more lies, no more secrets, no more beating around the burning bush. Andrew knows, he’s always known, and Neil, deep down, knew as well.

Against the natural order, the fox wanted to be caught.

And the hunter did not disappoint.

“Sorry to let you down, then,” Neil remarks blandly. He doesn’t try to defend himself. There’s no point, really. In all honesty, he really thought his methods of staying off the radar were sufficient. Lackluster, sure. But sufficient. He never took the same route home twice. The only people who could and very well did track Neil’s phone were, to Neil’s knowledge, The Family. He wouldn’t have cared enough to keep a phone on him either if it weren’t for Ichirou’s insistence—and the Moriyama Lord never pretended to hide his methods of watching Neil.

As for the Uber, well…that failure did rest on Neil’s head, he had to admit. After the dinner at Queenie’s, the night Kevin had found whatever peace he sought in Andrew’s arms all those weeks ago, Neil had fled back to his own empty apartment in the same Uber who had brought him to campus. How Andrew had retrieved Neil’’s address from simply that slip up is beyond Neil, but Neil doesn’t doubt Andrew’s abilities. Minyard has more than proven his worth for the few short months Neil has known him.

Besides, who knows what intel OCRA’s been feeding Andrew. As Neil begins to realize just how pathetic and futile all the attempts he’d been making at laying low are, a bubble of hollow laughter rises in his throat. Could he have been any more oblivious, any more damned? No matter what he does, he’s the fox trapped in the lion’s den. He can run north and the electric fence will shock him; south and the poachers will strangle him. East and West and North and South and there’s nothing but earth and fire to consume him.

There was never any point in running, Neil understands now. What’s the saying? Even the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. And Neil is certainly no exception.

But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to give up. That doesn’t mean he’s _ready_ to die.

“Life insurance,” Stuart Hatford had once told Neil, German vowels thick like heavy molasses, “is never a guarantee. The only person in control of your own life is you and the strings of Fate. And even then, that is a compromise.”

“Then why bother with security?” Neil had wondered in return. They were sat in one of Uncle’s many sun rooms, petunias and pistols surrounding them in various states of decorum. “Sounds like a fairytale at best.”

“Because.” Uncle tapped a finger against his wine glass, elixir flashing bright like blood. “Some fairytales are meant to be real.

“The issue,” Uncle continued after a long sip of his drink, “arises in whether you are the hero of your tale or the victim. If you are the latter, Fate has ruled against you. And you will perish with the rest of the damned plebs.”

Uncle leaned forward then. He placed his glass on the crystal table in front of him and peered at Neil, who refused to meet his guardian’s eyes but instead stared intensely out one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows. If he squinted just enough, he could make out the shadow of one of Uncle’s snipers guarding the villa. _Idiot_ , he had thought. _Defeats the whole purpose if we can see you._ That proved true months later when the Family stormed in, guns and silencers blazing. Stuart wasn’t the first to die at their hands and nor was he the last. Sometimes, Neil wonders why the Fates didn’t smite him down along with Uncle.

“Your life, Nathaniel,” Uncle said, “is your insurance; is your security. And right now, this _Sicherheit_ is thinner than paper.” He paused to let the words sink in but it was no use; Neil already knew that. The struggle was finding any shred to care. “Never give away your life, Nathaniel—or, what’s left of it. Your past, your truth is all that you are. Once the truth is out, all that makes you you is gone.”

_But_ , Neil thought to himself, obstinate as always, _there are worse things than the end._

Neil mulls these memories over while he and Andrew sit in silence. The undisturbed air hanging between them is not as uncomfortable as it once may have been. Without the lies, without the tense pretense they had stubbornly clung to, there’s nothing more to fill the air but the threads of electricity binding what they are to each other together. Andrew doesn’t bring up earlier, and neither does Neil. But they’re both aware, and they both know the other is aware. The thought of it distracts Neil.

Until Neil starts talking, unprompted. And once he starts, he doesn’t really know how to stop.

“The Moriyama’s invested in me when my—when Stuart proved…expendable.” Neil doesn’t see the slight flick of Andrew’s gaze, interest temporarily flared at the sudden speech, but no less hidden. Instead, his own eyes glaze over at the memory of the last time he saw Stuart—?*or, what was left of him, his uncle’s body struck dead on the atrium floor, head and brains splattered like a shattered bowl of carmine paint.* The evening gala hadn’t been set to start for another few hours, but Stuart, prepared as he always was, had been dressed and ready to go when the Family arrived. They spared no soul that day save for Neil—Nathaniel.

Perhaps they were aware of his own soul’s absence and so Fate allowed him momentarily reprieve.

“I never told you that, did I?” Neil swallows. He meets Andrew’s dark eyes for a fraction of a second, unstably keeping contact before dropping his gaze back down to his folded hands. “That Stuart’s dead. But you knew, of course. Didn’t you?”

The question is rhetorical. Andrew doesn’t have to answer so he simply remains quiet, listening with rapt attention.

“My father,” Neil continues with some restraint, “and the Family were not on good terms. Too much tension. He was more concerned with killing cheap clients, they were more focused on obtaining new ones.” The Family and The Butcher were long time black market traders, concerned with the retrieval, exportation, and selling of ancient and modern artifacts. Humans were—are—the most precious cargo. Business with the filthy rich is always a booming market, especially when it involves executing those who don’t fulfill their end of the bargain.

“Uncle was my father’s enemy, funnily enough. Everyone knows of the Hatford-Wesninksi rivalry.” Everyone, as in, those in power. Behind-the-scenes, dark-alleyway type power. Like Andrew’s crowd. “Naturally, Uncle and the Moriyama’s should have been on the same side. They were, for a long time.”

“Something changed that,” Andrew states with a curl of his lip. The information doesn’t appear new to him. “You still have not told me what it is that you are doing here.”

_Here._ Foxborough. Why goddamn middle-of-nowhere South Carolina?

“Insurance,” Neil answers. “That’s all I’ve ever been. The Family has been in need of new recruits for years.” He almost snorts, resentful. “The criminal artifact industry isn’t like it used to be.”

Andrew doesn’t respond but simply raises an eyebrow. _Go on._

Neil says, “I’m sure you know of Gordon. Riko. The others. Or must I explain that as well?”

“Humor me,” Andrew says. He leans forward and retrieves Neil’s untouched hot chocolate for himself. Neil lets him.

“Gordon, Riko, Luca…they were the Family’s other outlets of insurance, for lack of better words.” Neil gestures in frustration. “Obviously, that didn’t pan out.”

“Suicide,” Andrew adds with a dead-eyed scoff.

“Yeah,” Neil scoffs. “As if. But it’s a convenient story, innit?”

“‘Innit’? God, you’re so fucking British.”

“Sue me.” Neil rolls his eyes and continues. “When the Family’s recruits didn’t live up to Family expectations, they invested in me.”  
  
“And, pray tell,” Andrew drawls after a moment. “Why the fuck did they pick you?”

“Don’t sound too amazed.” Neil watches Andrew take a sip from the two-toned mug, the latter’s Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Neil swallows himself and looks away, forcing himself to not get distracted. “I had the training from my father, the inheritance from Uncle in exchange for my life. They didn’t need to waste years and resources preparing me.”  
  
Though he obviously heard, Andrew doesn’t physically react to Neil’s words. It’s not for another couple of minutes, until after Andrew’s finished the rest of the drink—how he managed not to burn his tongue off, Neil has no clue— that he says flatly, “For what.”

It’s the question of the century, but Andrew knows the answer. He just wants to hear it from Neil’s own mouth, after all this time. It’s what this all comes down to. It’s what, so long as Neil and Andrew are still alive and whole, will never happen.

“Retrieval. The Family lost contact of their last investment almost two years ago. They want him back.”

Two years ago. Two years ago Kevin Day ran from the Family. From Riko.

A year and a half ago Kevin arrived at Foxborough. Arrived home.

To Andrew.

Desperation is a powerful feeling, but connection is even stronger.

“Him,” Andrew repeats. His gaze stays fixed on Neil. “That is your mission. To throw _him_ back to the wolves.”

Neil shudders in a shallow breath. The truth burns. “Yes."

One moment, Andrew’s sitting still as marble stature. The next, he’s on his feet, dagger retracted from its sheath. *Neil sees what’s coming as clearly as he saw Uncle’s forehead split down the middle, skull and all.*

And like that miserable day, all that time ago, Neil doesn’t try to turn his gaze away. He lets himself watch Andrew step forward around the mahogany table, much more lithe than a man of his bulk should be able. When Andrew’s arm swings, weapon glinting in the artificial light, Neil almost grins. Feral.

“ _I won’t let you.”_

The dagger makes contact with the leather to the left of Neil’s head. The blade digs into the material, close enough to his hair that the base of his scalp hums in sympathy.

Andrew doesn’t release the hilt from his hand but lifts his other palm to cradle Neil’s jaw. The contrast in gestures would be enough to dizzy Neil, but then Andrew leans forward to rest his temple against Neil’s throat as if checking for a pulse and that’s the breaking point.

Neil closes his eyes.

“I know.” He swallows, throat heavy around the weight of Andrew. “And this is why I need you to trust me. Because I can’t—I won’t do that to him. Before I came here, I had no strings. No threads tying me down. But you and him—you and Kevin changed that.”

The confession is like a gulp of oxygen after near drowning. Andrew’s posture breaks and he pulls back, resting his hand on the top of the couch on the opposite side of where he still grasps the sunken dagger. His eyes seek Neil’s, almost desperate, though so damn hardened, for the last of any lies.

And as Neil knew he would, Andrew finds nothing left. Nothing at all.

_Once the truth is out, all that makes you_ you _is gone._

_I gave you it all, Andrew. And now, now I am Nothing. Just as you wanted._

What if Neil wants the old him gone? What if all he wants is to start anew?

“You remind me how to feel human,” Neil continues and it’s a tidal wave of relief. The you contains a multitudes of truths.

You: Andrew.

You: Kevin.

You: the air you breath.

You: the skin you shed.

_You you you_ make me feel more human than I deserve to.

Andrew’s eyes fall. If he were an angel his wings would fold into themselves, all righteous anger tampered. The lies he sought are nonexistent and truth be told, he doesn’t know how to deal with that.

“I believe you,” Andrew says quietly, wretchedly— _finally_ —after a minute.

But none of this is simple.

It’s enough to make Neil’s world burn.

Andrew rubs his jaw, a slow nod the evidence of his exhaustion. “You really don’t know who’s after you, then.”

The statement causes Neil to blink up at Andrew. “I don’t,” he swears. “Believe me, I would tell you.”

Neil watches the way Andrew’s jaw stiffen at his words. The irony isn’t lost to Neil: Neil, who’d seen Andrew near kill himself with dust. Andrew, who has no idea who tried to kill Neil with the same substance.

The question slips from his mouth before he has the chance to restrain it: “Why do you take Dust?”

Andrew doesn’t question how Neil knows of Andrew’s usage, but he doesn’t seem happy about it by any stretch of the imagination. He closes his eyes for a moment as if Neil’s existence is too tiresome to contend with. The act is so predictable that Neil would find it endearing, if _endeared_ was an emotion Neil knew how to feel.

“What do you want to hear, Neil?” Andrew says, but his voice is flat, uninflected. "Some romanticized bullshit about substance abuse? A glorified declaration over snorting lines in the bathroom of an overrated party?” But Neil manages to catch onto the slightest of tension in Andrew’s words, more than usual.

“You talk a lot but you don’t say much.” Andrew opens his eyes at this, pupils flaring. “I told you my truth, Andrew. Exactly like you wanted from me. I only ask the same in return.

“But if you don’t want to tell me, then so be it.”

“Then so be it?” Andrew repeats.

“So be it.” Neil shrugs and looks away, suddenly overcome with that strange urge. He’s been getting more comfortable with the feeling around Andrew and Kevin, but it still takes him by surprise, especially after the events earlier that day. Neil doesn’t hate it so much as he wants more of it.

_We all have our fatal addictions_.

Out loud, he says, “You don’t owe me anything. I won’t demand anything from you.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not, and I think you know that.”

Andrew considers this silently. The moments pass and Neil watches the tick of a clock’s second hand from where its mounted on the wall opposite him. It’s mid-afternoon, and again Neil wonders where Kevin is. He waits for Andrew to talk, knowing the blonde’s own ticks by this point.

Andrew finally says—and oh, how it’s a goddamn pain— “My job.”

Neil crosses his arms and tilts his head at Andrew. He doesn’t respond for a moment because—what do you say to that? How do you tell a self-destructive person to not self-destruct for the sake of nobility? Thinking about it gives Neil a headache. Psychology is Andrew’s expertise, not Neil’s.

When it gets to the point where Neil realizes Andrew’s not planning on offering any more information up, Neil asks, “Your job? You take Dust for OCRA?”

There it is, another wall torn down between them. Neil said the acronym out loud, and Andrew can do nothing but nod once.

“And how does that make you feel?” He snorts internally at the sound of himself, as if he were the Academy’s counselor or something.

Andrew’s nostrils flare like he knows what Neil’s thinking. But after a pause, a thought occurring to him, the most brutal, hollow grin Neil has seen since his father splits across Andrew’s face and he says, “Like my world’s always ending.” Neil laughs because it’s not funny.

They stay like that, Andrew before Neil’s sitting form, for another few minutes, quiet in their own thoughts. Andrew almost looks like he wants to say more. _About the drugs? About Neil’s own addiction—to Andrew and Kevin? About Neil’s past?_ Neil has the suspicion he hasn’t heard the end of it from Andrew, but he does wonder what Andrew will say when the time comes.

The best lies are those closest to the truth. Neil thinks, _I’ve never committed the crimes you supposed of me, you beautiful bastard._

_Ask me for more. I’ll tell you everything._

But then Andrew says without preamble, “I haven’t used in awhile.”

“Tired of the apocalypse already?” Neil shoots back.

“The Rapture gets boring after awhile.”

And Andrew looks directly at Neil, eyes boring deep into Neil’s own, when he says, “You saw me. That day.”

That day. That’s all Andrew says, and of fucking course Neil knows what Andrew means. Neil’s almost surprised to not detect any sign of anger or alarm in Andrew’s face, but then again, Andrew’s sober. Which means he’s as typically stoic as the next blade of grass.

“Yeah,” Neil admits because there’s really nothing else to say.

“A dream. That’s—“ Andrew shudders in a breath—“what I thought you were.”  
  
“A side effect,” Neil adds. “That’s what you called me.”

“ _That_ ,” Andrew bites, “has not changed.”

Neil opens his mouth, then closes it. _Oh_.

He doesn’t look away from Andrew but neither can he think of a clever enough retort—or at least not one sufficient enough to hide the small tremors starting within his chest. But still, still he cannot look way.

“Staring,” Andrew tells Neil when the silence becomes too loud.

Neil snaps, “Am I not allowed to look at what’s in front of me?”

“There have been many things in front of you.” Andrew steps away from the couch and back to the chair across from Neil. “One, however, has caught your eye.”

Neil knows what he’s talking about, and it’s not Andrew. “He has your’s.”

Andrew nods slowly, running his tongue along his upper row of teeth, and leans back against the arm of the chair. “And you have his.”

“Are we going to keep talking in circles again?”

Andrew raises his shoulders. Up-down. “Answer my question—“

“Will you answer mine?“

“How much do you want him?” Andrew ignores the interruption and finishes, just like the first time Andrew had found Neil in the balcony.

And oh, how quickly the strings of Fate have unravelled.

“Does it matter?” Neil demands, as if their thrice shared kiss hours before never happened.

_Want him? It’s more than just_ him. _It’s—_

It’s every accidental but gentle touch of Kevin’s hand on his. It’s Andrew’s fierce protection, snide comments thrown to mask his sincerity. It’s Kevin and Andrew together, the Pacific and the Atlantic crashing into each other.

“ _Wanting_ is out of the question. He has you already,” Neil says _._ But he’s only deflecting, just like Andrew with any mention of his work. Just like with Kevin with any mention of his scars. Just like every moment of history, constantly repeating, never ceasing. Two halves of the same stubborn coin.

Andrew nearly laughs, but he’s too sober for it to be genuine. “Those two things are not inherently exclusive.”

“Neither of you need me,” Neil tells Andrew. More deflecting.

_Why are you running from this?_ _What —who—will you run to instead?_

Neil has no answer.

Andrew scrapes a hand through his hair. “I know that better than anyone, Josten. That is not at all what I am saying.”

When Neil doesn’t respond to this, Andrew sighs. “Must I spell everything out for you?”

“You have called me verbally challenged on more than one occasion,” Neil reminds Andrew because deflecting, always deflecting, is easier than listening.

Andrew studies Neil for another few seconds before pushing himself back off the chair and over to Neil, expression murder. Unlike before, Andrew allows a warning before he attacks.

“Yes or no, Neil?”

Neil purses his lips. How do you tell a self-destructive person not to self-destruct, even for the sake of connection?

“Am I really Neil or just Nathaniel to you?” Neil says instead of answering, one last deflection before the onslaught.

Andrew takes one last step forward, feet hitting the edge of the couch in front of Neil. “Foxes,” he says slowly, “don’t have names. So long as they run away.”

Andrew turns his head to the side. “Will you run, Neil?”

The tremors surge and the chasm unleashes. Neil’s knuckles clench beside him as he looks up at Andrew and whispers out a hoarse, “ _No_.”

Andrew leans forward and, when Neil doesn’t make any move to stop him but rather leans into the oncoming blow, he raises a hand to Neil, fingers curling around the backside of Neil’s head and thumb making gentle contact with Neil’s temple.

Neil sighs at the soft brutality.

“No one needs you,” Andrew says, light as a prayer.

Neil shuts his eyes and pushes in closer to Andrew’s touch, all fire and force. “I know.”

And he does know. Because _need_ doesn’t give a person worth. Because his life isn’t an obligation. Because the most worthwhile things are freely given.

But _need_ is out of the question.

“Neil.”

Neil hums, not wanting to reopen his eyes and see the sepia air. Andrew presses his thumb a decimal harder into Neil ’s skin and finally Neil complies.

“No more running. No more needing.”

Andrew says, “ _How much do you want this?”_

This time, Neil accepts his execution.

“Enough,” he says, “to burn.”

Neil’s sitting on his hands when the killing blow strikes. It doesn’t do much to suppress the urge to reach out, to reach forward, but it does enough to stop him. Because Andrew’s no longer in front of him but above him, one knee propped on the cushion beside Neil. And Neil’s saying the magic word, the one and only plea on earth able to spur Andrew into motion: _Yes_.

Andrew’s lips collide with Neil’s when Andrew finishes, “So _stay_ ,” vowels and consonants melding with Neil’s own breath and then, finally, the tremors underneath his skin erupt. Neil’s jaw opens wider with the shockwave and Andrew pours forward, heat overtaking Neil’s frost. It’s not a passive act, and submission is far from Neil’s mind when he pushes back into Andrew’s grasp.

He knows Andrew doesn’t need him but Neil needs _this_ in a way he’s never needed before. Self-destructively. Selfishly. Sacrificially. Andrew lifts his other hand to Neil’s neck, Neil’s jaw, as if seeking as much connection as humanely possible. He breaks away only long enough to say, “ _Waist_ ,” and Neil latches on to the permission with fervor. His hands break from their temporary restraints and take hold to where Andrew allowed at the same time Andrew surges forward once more to replace Neil’s breath with his.

As powerful as the kiss is, and as hungry as their desperation, every trench and furrow of Andrew’s lips on Neil’s is also painfully slow. Not quite soft, but neither rushed nor messy. Perhaps, a bit greedy on both their ends. Andrew tilts Neil’s head to deepen the touch that joins them, a forty-five degree angle of mutual surrender, and Andrew accepts all what Neil offers:

Everything.

Touch and tongue and teeth and tendons all strain under Andrew’s composure. Neil gasps when Andrew’s forefinger trails an unconscious circle behind Neil’s ear and Andrew takes that too in stride, cradling the base of Neil’s head in a sure grasp.

Judas betrayed the Son of Man with a kiss. Paris doomed Troy for the same offense. All throughout history, the playwrights, the comedians, the invincible damned have made light of the holy rite that is unity with another. The joining of souls, the tying of tongues, the warring of hearts only bested by acquiescence to the other.

A kiss can start a war. It can end one just as quick.

But their kiss is no war, no bloody crusade. It’s a revolution—around the sun, against the world. A world that singles out the chosen few and damns the rest. A world that would never, under any circumstances, allow for someone to choose their own Ending, control their own fate.

Their kiss is their choice in a world starved of free will.

And Neil’s made his choice. It’s the men who put him first, even when Neil believed himself last. It’s the men who deserve the world, even when the world doesn’t deserve them. It’s the men who told Neil _stay_ , even when the wind screams _go_.

When they finally pull apart, contrary to their wills but spurred on by their shaking lungs in need of air, Neil can’t gather the energy to open his eyes. He feels drained in the purest way possible. Cheeks dry, tremors quelled, he reckons—of all times—this would be the most appropriate to die. To stop his heart, now tamed and fulfilled, so that he may never have to ruin such momentary reprieve.

But emotions are so temporary. So fleeting. It’s what, after all, makes Neil human. And the second the thought has crossed Neil’s mind, he realizes the foolishness of it.

How could he possibly be content with death, when the other half of his heart is not present to lay Neil to rest?

“He’ll be here soon,” Andrew says. Not a warning; a reassurance. His voice is quiet once more as if to not disturb the still waves of air that have settled over them. Neil doesn’t ask how Andrew could know that, nor questions how Andrew practically read Neil’s mind. Instead, he rests his head against Andrew’s thigh from where Andrew still leans half-kneeling above Neil, hands anchored to the fabric of Andrew’s jeans.

“He doesn’t know,” Neil whispers. “He doesn’t know why I’m really here. That they’re still after him.”

Andrew doesn’t need to ask who _they_ is. He says, “It doesn’t matter.”

Neil scoffs, pulling back from Andrew to look up at him. “Of all things, you choose to deny _this_?”

“There is no _this_ to deny. It doesn’t matter why you are here,” Andrew says, stubbornly meeting Neil’s eyes, “but that you stay.”

Neil shakes his head. “They’ll destroy him.”

“And then,” he continues, “they’ll destroy you." 

“ _Neil_."

“Listen, Andrew. Damn it,” Neil breathes out the last statement. “The Family doesn’t care about niceties. The only reason Kevin’s not in their arms right this second is because they chose to wait. But they don’t _need_ to wait, do you understand me? They’ve always known where he went after…when he came to Fox, _they’ve never not known._

“And the moment they get tired of waiting, it’s over.” For everyone. Neil keeps the last part to himself, knowing it would just be redundant.

Neil blinks slowly before looking away. “You can’t ask me to say if it would save you both for me to go.”

Andrew considers this for a moment before reaching forward and flicking Neil on the forehead. “Idiot,” he says lightly. “Do you hear yourself.”

Neil rubs his forehead. “What?”

“You just said.” Andrew doesn’t sound happy to explain himself. “They’ve always known where he is. They don’t _need_ you, Neil.”

Oh.

Neil’s starting to put the pieces together that Andrew’s pointing to. It’s a product of the previous conversation, but reversed.

Two sides to every coin.

“You leave,” Andrew continues, “Ichirou strikes. You stay, Ichirou strikes. Can you get that through your fox brain?”

Neil leans back, letting his shoulders fall into the couch back.

It should have been obvious. It is, in many ways, still obvious.

But even now, after all this time, Neil still manages to find ways to surprise himself in just how _stupid_ he can be.

He wasn’t so much of an idiot to think that by running away, it would solve all their problems. But at least by leaving, by getting as far away as possible, The Family would be distracted enough to leave Kevin be for awhile, long enough for Andrew to make plans to move himself and Day with the aid of Andrew’s employers. The Family had let Kevin’s absence from their fold stretch awhile, so why not a little more, if it meant retrieving their sly fox?

In either scenario, whether Neil run to the ends of the earth or play into The Family’s game and hand Kevin over to them, shining platter and all, it Ends with Neil’s head on a stick. Run, get caught, get mounted on a wall, as all prey is meant to wind up. Capture The Family’s Queen, and deliver the hostage, on the other hand?

Well, what’s the use of a fox after it’s done its job? A job that, as Andrew pointed out and that Neil should have seen coming long beforehand, The Family never really needed Neil for.

But that begs the question, “Then why _am_ I here?”

Andrew’s index finger taps rhythmically on his opposite arm from where he’s crossed them over his chest. “You’re asking the wrong devil, _Fuchs_.”

Andrew pauses, as if contemplating his next words. “But we will find the answer.”

_We_. Not _You_ , nor _I_.

We.

_Oh_.

II.

Neil starts to respond, mind and heart racing in tandem. But then:

_Tap. Tap. Tap-tap._

Came a knocking at the door.

Andrew turns from his place in front of Neil to answer it, but not before retrieving his dagger still stuck in the couch leather that Neil had almost forgot about. Neil huffs at the gouge in his couch and mutters a perfunctory “ _Arschloch_ ” to Andrew’s retreating back.

Andrew flips him off. Neil glares, all salt mixed with water.

Undoing the dead bolt, Andrew swings the door open to reveal Kevin waiting outside the apartment’s entrance holding a drink carrier in one hand and a Target bag of groceries in the other. Neil raises a brow. 

“Is he awake?” He hears Kevin ask Andrew. Andrew takes the bag from Kevin’s hands and steps back to let Kevin in, saying, “Again, wrong devil,” and leaving Neil to snort and Kevin to jut his head in confusion.

“Day,” Neil greets from the couch. A bit tense, though he doesn’t know why. No, not tense. Unsure, especially after his conversation with Andrew. It’s not a foreign, though, feeling unsure in his own skin.

Kevin isn’t oblivious to nor dismayed by the reserved salute. He sets the drink carrier down on the mahogany table then walks over to the couch, long legs twisting around the limited space. 

“ _Tu te sens mieux?”_ he asks, sitting next to Neil and lifting a hand to Neil’s forehead. Neil doesn’t have to turn around to feel the heat of Andrew’s gaze on them from the kitchen, who’s putting whatever Kevin brought from the store away.

Neil isn’t sure if Kevin or Andrew have any desire to repeat anything like what happened earlier —and just _what_ _exactly_ happened, Neil still can’t quite believe. He’s willing to chalk up his capricious mood and audacity to the dust, but asking for Andrew’s forgiveness, his kiss? Saying yes to Kevin only to later break all their hearts?

Neil only has himself to blame.

But Neil, so selfishly, so humanly, wants more.

“ _For it is said_ ,” Kevin had once read from his _Selections on Ethics_ textbook, as he and Neil and Allison lounged on the second story sofas in Witherspear one night, “ _that humans are never satisfied. That you give them one thing and they want something more._

“ _And this is said in disparagement_ ,” Kevin continued, “ _whereas it is one of the greatest talents the species has. And one that has made it superior to animals that are satisfied with what they have.”_

“Bullshit,” Allison had snorted. She’d been cleaning her glasses with the underside of her skirt, half listening to Kevin study aloud for their upcoming exam. “There’s no talent in greed.”

Kevin had raised a brow, lip upturned in amusement, and glanced over at Neil where he was sat next to Allison. (There hadn’t been much room next to Kevin on the taller man’s chosen couch, who’d swung his legs to lay Roman-style on the burgundy settee. Neil kept getting distracted by the handsome sight, oddly entranced by the relaxed yet poised posture Kevin had flopped into.)

_“Qu'est-ce que tu penses, chéri?”_

Neil had shrugged. “My moral compass isn't fit to answer that,” he said, only half joking. But Allison and Kevin laughed as if he had made some world-class comedic retort, and so Neil found himself smiling, if only to appease their humor.

Neil had agreed with Steinback to a certain extent, and despised the writer for the other. He, for his part, never was satisfied with what he had, no matter how hard he tried to force himself to be. A beating heart, an intact skull was all he needed to keep going, to keep running.

But Neil never could simply accept that, could he? Because the first minute Kevin showed kindness, the first second Andrew cared enough to know Neil—really know, not just glaze over the details—everything within Neil begged to stop. To stay.

He wants and he wants and he _wants._ And it might be the death of him, but death would meet him with a smile regardless. Isn’t life a sacrifice already?

“Neil, did you hear me?” Kevin asks, voice soft so not to disturb Neil anymore. Neil blinks away his thoughts and realizes he never answered Kevin.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s fine—I’m fine.”

Kevin hums, unconvinced. He pulls a leg under him and shifts so that he’s fully facing Neil, hand resting on Neil’s thigh, his other arm propped on the couch back. “I got some drinks for us,” he continues in that low timbre. “Coffee for me, some sweet shit for Andrew. I wasn’t sure what you’d want so I got both. You can pick.”

Neil’s having a hard time focusing on Kevin’s words. When Kevin realizes where Neil’s been intently staring, he starts to pull his hand away. “Oh, I’m sorry—“

“No,” Neil interrupts. “No, don’t.” He can feel his face grow warm but barrels on. “You can—It’s okay. _Really_.” Just for the love fuck don’t stop touching me.

Kevin must have seen what Neil was really trying to say in his stuttered expression because he carefully moves his hand back to Neil’s leg. “Are you sure?”  
  
Neil swallows. “Yes.”

Kevin starts to say something else when his other arm slides across the leather, scraping the recent gouge. Kevin blinks at it. “Was this here before we got here?” He asks, no doubt knowing the answer already. Neil admires Kevin’s ability to give the benefit of the doubt, though.

“Um.”

Kevin sighs. “Andrew!” he calls towards the kitchen. “What the fuck!”

Neil wipes his nose to cover a laugh. The entire situation—no, the entire past twenty-four hours has just been ridiculous.

Andrew walks into the room and simply raises a brow at Kevin while he grabs one of the drinks from the table. It’s in a clear plastic cup, some flavored coffee with whipped cream and chocolate drizzle at the top. Neil wrinkles his nose at it.

“Why did you stab the couch?” Kevin demands.

Andrew picks up a straw from a handful laid on top of the drink carrier and plunges it into the top of the cup.

“Who said I did.”

Kevin huffs, cocking his jaw to disguise his own laugh. “The evidence, I’d say.”

Andrew sips from his straw, and more whipped cream than coffee goes through.

“Circumstantial,” is all he says.

Kevin looks away from Andrew and back at Neil to hide the fact he’s laughing. So apparently Neil isn’t alone in seeing the ridiculousness of what’s going on. 

“Sorry about your couch,” Kevin tells Neil sincerely. “We can buy you a new one.”

Neil decides not to mention that the couch neither belongs to him nor does he think Kevin could afford a replacement for premium Arabian horse leather (which, now that Neil thinks about it, isn’t even legal in most countries), but he clicks his tongue in gratitude. “Don’t worry about it. I really don’t know how to explain how little I care about this old thing, but thanks.”

Kevin chuckles, still not really convinced, and Neil could kiss the smile off Kevin’s features if he were able.

But the fact of the matter is that Neil still feels guilty, if not more so than before, that he can truly do nothing to stop The Family from raining down like hell. What right does he have to kiss a man who, in all honesty, should have every right to despise Neil if only he knew everything?

“What are you thinking about?” Kevin asks Neil.

Neil doesn’t have an answer to that. _Everything and nothing, all at once._ He’s thinking about the way Kevin’s dimples deepen after he’s said something cocky, usually to Andrew, jade eyes alight. *He’s thinking about Ichirou slitting their throats, the way Neil watched The Family’s head do so months before when one of Ichirou’s associates betrayed him.* He’s thinking about the way Andrew said Neil’s not alone in this without using so many words, the way Kevin said so in as many. He’s thinking about who drugged him at the club last night: was it someone from The Family, a warning, perhaps? Or was it someone else, a ghost, a demon, a shadow stalking Neil’s every move?

“Where were you?” Neil asks instead, clearing his throat. “Andrew said you were out.”

Kevin gestures vaguely towards the kitchen. “I had made plans with Matt earlier. Some project. ‘Also needed a shower, and you had nothing to eat here so I swung by the dorms before picking up some food on the way back.”

Neil bites the inside of his cheek. “I have food,” he argues without any heat. He doesn’t comment on the first statement Kevin had made. He knows more than he would like about Matthew Boyd, but he also knows Matt is under strict orders not to touch Day. So there’s nothing Neil can really do about that arrangement.

“Stale bagels and two mushy apples is not _food_ , Neil,” Kevin scoffs. “It’s a wonder you’ve kept yourself alive this long.”

He’s joking, of course. Kevin jokes, it’s what he does. He’s the sun, warm and bright and loud on some days, sharp and burning and momentous on others. But Neil can only half ass a smile at the sentiment, leaning his head against Kevin’s chest when Kevin pulls Neil closer.

If only Kevin knew.

But Kevin doesn’t know. That’s the whole tragic point. He doesn’t even know what he does not know, though he thinks he does. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, but in the End?

It’s a brutal death.

III.

The sun, offering a dull but constant glow in the face of the approaching evening, shines lazy on Nevix’s back when they arrive at their intended location. Though they’re (arguably) in a rush, they don’t betray any such sign of haste whatsoever. Instead, they idly scan the rows of parked car after parked car through their tinted aviators, pausing in their steps to finish blowing a rather unimpressive bubble of gum. The bubble bursts with a slight _pop_ , pink tissue nearly deflated before its even full of air, and Nevix sighs while they study the still vehicles from afar.

Ironically enough, the entire operation which Matthew Boyd and his sponsors have dragged Nevix into rests entirely within the small, unassuming pieces of metal within Nevix’s coat pocket. While tiny, the feel of the devices offer a heavy, burning reminder of what this very moment means: the game—the filthy, bastardous gameplayed by false gods and their puppeteers, is afoot—and Nevix will be damned if they don’t pull through victorious.

They’ve never lost a bet before, and they sure as hell won’t start now.

It only takes a few extra moments, really, for Nevix to finally catch sight of their target. Never one to sacrifice precaution, Nevix maintains a constant degree of awareness around their periphery, even when—no, especially when—they move into motion. Calmly starting forward, they’re a perfect caricature of halcyon, though no less the blazing warrior.

“ _Na bitte,”_ they murmur to themself triumphantly when they reach the nondescript white Ford. Circling the vehicle like a vulture, Nevix checks the license plates once, twice, three times. Then they peer into the passenger window, noting an old, empty soda can on the dash and a pair of gardening sheers on the car’s floor.

As Joseph would say, Bingo.

Nevix pans their surroundings once more, never too careful, before kneeling on the parking lot gravel. Next, they pull out their meager supplies from their backpack: flexible leather gloves, two tubes of heat-resistant epoxy, and three pieces of junk metal that Nevix likes to call the stooges. Slipping on the gloves and uncapping one of the tubes, Nevix retrieves the satin pouch from their coat pocket and sighs. Only four left, but they have to make the most of them. It’s not quite enough, but it’ll work. It has to.

Ten minutes and a handful of cursing later, it’s done. Nevix rocks back on their heels and dusts the grime off their gloves. Satisfied with their work, it doesn’t take long to pack away the few materials they’d brought and within minutes, they’re walking away just as calmly as they’d arrived. There’s still no sign of any disturbance other than themself in the staff’s parking lot.

Nevix hums as they walk, the Academy’s song filtering off-tuned in the breeze. They blow another mediocre bubble of gum as they skip onto the stone paved walkway leading toward the dorms. The settting sun reflects off their glasses and a small, pleased grin slowly splits their face.

The trap is set. There’s really nothing left to do.

But wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Amber Run's "I Found" song fucking SLAPS man
> 
> also no Arabian horses were harmed in the writing of this chapter *sobs*
> 
> SO LIKE COOL. THREE CHAPTERS DOWN. MORE TO GO!! SHITS ABOUT TO HIT THE FAN BUT TO QUOTE ONE OF OUR FAVORITE PROBLEMATIC BASTARDS, ITS FINE!!!!
> 
> References to:  
> To a Mouse By Robert Burns  
> John Steinback, The Pearl  
> Sherlock Holmes
> 
> Sicherheit: security  
> Arschloch: asshole   
> Tu te sens mieux?: do you feel better?  
> Qu'est-ce que tu penses, chéri?: What do you think, darling?  
> Na bitte: There you are/Voila (other similar sentiments, etc)


	21. I've Seen The Stars, They Look Like Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For nothing is more unbearable, once one has it, than freedom."  
> ~James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room
> 
> "You're falling now. You're swimming. This is not harmless.  
> You are not breathing."  
> ~Richard Siken, Crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: canon-typical violence, references to drug use, very brief mentions of su*cidal thoughts that are not followed through, violence towards the throat, derogatory language in reference to mental health issues used twice (l*natic, n*tter, respectively) , mentions/descriptions of scars, character’s insecurities of their scars; a character burns someone intentionally without consent 
> 
> additional cw: theyre such ASSHOLES like im—these dudes i stg. i hate them!! so much!!! funky bastards!!!! 
> 
> okay thank u that is all <33

I.

There’s an echo in the ears when silence becomes syrup thick. An echo that demands to be heard, a whirring that won’t stop, a white noise you’re all too aware of when you’d rather not be aware of anything. Because life abhors silence, and bodies crave clamor. Disorder. Entropy.

The second law of thermodynamics.

It’s physics, of course. The density of sorrow, the pressure of desire, the temperature of fear.

Heat, that’s what you’re supposed to think of next. Heat and energy. Both the absence of and abounding presence. The chill of anxious steps, the sting of frozen rebuff. The heat of flushed skin, red and raged from a fist fight. Knuckles on bone, teeth on tongue, a self-persecution that can only be brought about by lovers and rivals. Intimates and intimidators.

Seth Gordon wondered what it was like to feel nothing at all—no heat, nor the absence of, for that’s really all that coldness is; no pressure; no crushing weight on his chest that threatens to drown him before the water he’s submersed himself in does.

He wondered if he’d already accomplished that.

But whether he opened his eyes to chlorine laced currents or closed them back to shadowy darkness, the noise returned. In one ear, out the other. An echo, a whirring, a siren.

For just one second, one fucking moment—god _damn it—_ did he wish the noise to stop. To quiet. To go away.

He just wanted to _go away_ and the bottom of Wreck’s fourth floor swimming pool just didn’t cut it.

It was a forgettable day, and he a forgettable boy. The cherry on top was him forgetting the thoughts he really needed to remember. It was crucial for his survival.

Muscles moving, chest straining, legs kicking. Four point nine seconds, now gasping for air.

Lungs inflating, eyes burning, arms pushing. Four beats, nine strokes, and he’s back, struggling at the bottom of the pool.

It was quiet there, under the depths. He wasn’t quite at the deepest end. Too much pressure hurt his ears. He hovered near the middle, around three meters but slowly inching farther down the pool floor’s incline. He moved his arms again— _swish, swish_ —when the echo returned, opting for physical noise over internal. Nothing more than that, though. He could hold his breath nearly six minutes; he trained himself to do so. But using excess energy cut that time down. He needed to concentrate.

_Think, Gordon. Fucking think._

Class at ten. Lunch. Report at two. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. Of course I haven’t fucked up your precious pet, Sir.

 _Think_. Ichirou’s face in the car, eyes hidden behind polarized glasses. Mouth downturned. Fingers rest—no. Right hand frozen on the knee, left index tapping on the thigh. _Think_.

But Seth forgot something. He heard every word, every calm but furious note of reprimand falling from Ichirou’s tongue. _Quiet fury,_ as Seth’s dad would have put it. But there was something else.

“Roughhousing,” Ichirou had repeated, condescension coming strong in his accent. “That’s your excuse?”

“Not an excuse. An explanation,” Seth had insisted. “It was just practice. My racquet accidentally—“

“A piece of sports equipment, Mr. Gordon, ” Ichirou interrupted, “does not have the agency to _accidentally_ commit an action.”

Ichirou had been in town for a meeting that was not on Gordon’s pay grade. It was just Seth’s luck, or lack thereof, that he’d fucked up while Ichirou was just a car ride away.

Seth swallowed a sigh of frustration. “ _I_ accidentally hit him in the face, Sir. He’d taken off his helmet and I hadn’t—“

“Are you shifting the blame away from yourself?” Ichirou’s tone was verbal frostbite and Seth paled.

“ _No_ , Sir. It was, I mean he didn’t—I apologize. It was my fault. The blame is mine. It-It won’t happen again.”

Ichirou regarded Seth for a cool moment before lifting a a single finger—the left index from his thigh—to signal to the driver to stop. The premier Bentley Mulsanne was practically a wet-dream for a man like Seth, but considering the circumstances, he’d truly rather be anywhere but sitting on the leather-backed seat facing Ichirou. Even in his slacks, he could feel his anxious sweat sticking to the upholstery.

“Cause and effect,” the Moriyama lord stated slowly, drawing the syllables out. “Do you understand my words?”

“Sir?”

“A cause demands an effect.” Ichirou leaned forward, dark eyes meeting Seth’s over the rim of the former’s glasses. “You injured our _Nonpareil_. Physically marked, no less. The cause.” Ichirou lifted a second finger, middle, to join the first. “A consequence is in order, is it not? Thus, the effect.”

Seth blinked between the condemning fingers to Ichirou’s face. “Sir, I told you. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to give Kevin a con—“

He should’ve excepted the slap. It had been coming a mile away. But still.

Memories within memories. The past within the past. A dream within a dream. In the water, Seth raised a numb hand to his cheek. He could more hear than feel the blow still ringing on his skin. Hours after it all, he’d stopped shaking. But even then—

“Don’t say his name, Bryan,” Ichirou had told Seth as the latter cradled the side of his face, hurt more by the three dense rings Ichirou wore on his hand than simply the flesh. “Tell me instead: what lesson, would you reckon, would serve as an adequate righting for the wrong that has been committed?”

Seth spit before he could stop himself, _“Fuck this.”_

The second, third, fourth slap broke skin, and Seth had the gall to wonder if it possibly cracked bone.

“Useless boy.“

And that’s when it happened. When Ichirou had spoke his damning sentence to Seth.

 _Think, think, think_ —but no amount of deliberation could fill in the holes Seth never encountered. Distracted by the ringing in his ears and blinding pain in his face, Seth hadn’t been able to hear just what it was that Ichirou said next after the second slap.

How do you ask a man to repeat the date of your execution?

In the end, they’d dropped Seth off back at Fox. The same pristine sidewalk he’d initially left greeted Seth once more. Some sidewalks shouldn’t be so immaculate, but Foxborough’s was power washed nearly every two weeks. Hard for a stain to last that way. Unless you’re talking about the students, which is another story.

At least Seth was self aware. Stepping back onto campus, physically whole save for a bleeding, possibly fractured cheekbone and battered heart, he knew the stain he left behind in his wake. Stubborness, pride, fear.

He’d found out the next day about his sister.

But sitting at the bottom of those haunted depths that night, cheek still torn and bruising a lovely shade of fuchsia, he hadn’t had cause to worry about others. It was only he, himself, and him in the world. So he reckoned, of course. He’d thought he’d signed his death warrant for injuring The Family’s precious possession. But, missing the words due to some other self-entropic noise, he’d misinterpreted the target of the execution.

Long story short, Aspen Gorden’s funeral was a closed casket ceremony.

They’d never been close. She, a trust fund beauty queen attending university in California, had grown up in an entirely separate world than Seth. Not troubled enough for Fox, not innocent enough for amnesty. Until his dying breath, Seth wondered if she’d always been fated to die at their hands ( _his hands, damn it, Gordon, it was_ his _fault, if he hadn’t fucked up she’d still be—_ ), regardless of what mistakes he may or may not have made.

But again. Cause and effect. Two principles that ruled every breath and every exhale Seth released into the world.

When he finally dragged himself from the pool, Wreck was nearing closing hour. He’d managed to avoid nearly every soul that’d care to ask about his ruined face until that point, but as usual, his wheel of fortune had spun downward. Grabbing a towel from a rack on the wall to dry off, he didn’t notice the woman staring at his back until he turned around.

“Alli.”He whispered her name like a sacrifice before his god.

“What the _fuck_ —you’re face, you…” Initially crossed arms released to her sides, Allison Reynolds stalked forward. She didn’t touch his cheek— thank fucking God—but rested her hands on his shoulders and searched his eyes. They were nearly the same height, but the way she looked at him in that moment could have torn him down from any pedestal with just her gaze.

“ _Who?_ ” she demanded.

Seth lifted his chin. “It’s taken care of.”

“ _Not_ what I asked.”

Seth shrugged her off and lifted the towel to his face, mopping at his wet hair. “I’m not talking about this. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Allison stopped his movement with a single finger to his jaw, turning his face to her. He waited for her to speak, and for a second she almost did, but the slight hesitation revealed the conflict in her eyes.

“Love.” He dropped the towel and reached for her. She nodded as if to herself before slowly leaning forward to grasp his waist, the other reaching to cup the side of his unhurt cheek. Never leaving his gaze, she placed a firm kiss underneath his jaw, right where the edges of the bruises cut off like the drop at the edge of a cliff.

"Tell me."

Seth gazed at her with the eyes of a sailor, begging to be released from his siren's hold. "No."

“Then promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me you’ll be alright. Even if that’s not tonight.”

There was no internal battle over the matter. Seth breathed out an assurance along with a sigh of relief that she wasn’t going to press for answers. When she kissed him, he thought of her lips on his, the softest grief he’d ever experienced. He would give anything to know that she’d find the person deserving of her once he was gone, because that person sure as hell wasn’t him, and they both knew it. But Allison could hold her own, regardless. The thought was one of the only consolations available to him.

Haunted voyeurs, Wreck’s ghosts watched their shared sorrow from the moonlit shadows.

Seth had to stop by the locker room on the first floor for his bag before he left. After retrieving his belongings, he went to slam his locker shut. But something was preventing the shudder from closing and upon further inspection, he noticed the corner of a forgotten notebook sticking out.

“Damn it,” he sighed when he had to tug harder on the offending object, the ring of the notebook having gotten stuck in a crack in the locker. Finally pulling free, a handful of loose pages then fell out, slowly flittering through the air around Seth and to the floor.

He cursed again.

One paper. Two paper. Three paper. Four. And fuck you, Dr. Seuss.

He missed the fifth scrap, which had fallen farthest away and next to a separate row of lockers by the wall. It wasn’t anything important, simply a set of adopted lines he’d done for a class. Fallen forgotten on the floor, the page went from butterfly mid-flight to crushed memory in a heartbeat. But Lorenz’ prediction would know that this butterfly’s journey was not over. Forty-nines minutes after Seth left and one before close, Luca Tsevtkova walked in, set a rented exy racquet down, and kicked the piece of paper behind the locker without a second thought. Murdered two days later, Luca’s racquet went forgotten along with the page. The son of sorrow wouldn’t discover this trivial artifact of his late friend for nearly another six months.

But all that that was neither here nor there for Seth in his current moment. His present, though now long past. What was it Professor Highland said? Existence itself is but a series of memories of what has come before. Even the present has long past, current awareness exchanged for seconds gone by.

His own present was another matter, so burdened with time’s demands.

If he’d have departed that locker room a minute earlier, or even a minute later, he might have been able to avoid the final disaster for the evening. But again. Fortune’s wheel was not in his favor.

“ _Das Buch wurde gestohlen. Ich glaube nicht, dass sie es tun wird—“_

It was the only thing Seth heard rounding the door’s corner before a hand came flying at his wounded cheek. Fresh pain lancing atop old, his choked cry sent him gasping. Immediately, stars shot up in his vision. Bent over, air knocked out of his lungs, Seth was temporarily deaf—for the second time that day—to some person’s words flying over his head. He didn’t hear the gushing apology, nor who the voice belonged to. It was only after he’d pinned a horrified Nicholas Hemmick to the wall, an instinctual reaction to retaliate, that it began to dawn on him what must’ve happened.

“Seth, oh my God—“

“What the fuck—“

“I’m sorry, holy-Seth, I’m _sorry_ , I didn’t—“

“—do you think you’re _doing_?”

“Let him _go_ , Seth—“

“Andrew!”

The last exclamation came from a voice Seth _did_ recognize. But he didn’t have a chance to dwell on the realization that Kevin Day was somewhere behind him because suddenly there was a weight crushing into Seth and dragging him down. Seth let go of Nicky in his fall, only having enough forethought to turn his head at the very last second to avoid crushing his throbbing cheek once more.

He’d had worse days. But this was really getting old.

“What the—“

Then came the sharp, piercing sensation at his throat and Seth decided—yeah, for sure, one of the worst days he’d had.

Because Andrew Minyard had a fucking dagger of all things to Seth’s throat. If that wasn’t upsetting enough for one person, namely (cough) _Seth_ , it was more than a shock for the witnesses standing around. Allison looked ready to pounce and turn the knife on Andrew, Nicky went ashen, the person who’d Nicky been talking to—one of the cheerleaders, Erik—was trying to make sure Nicky had air in his lungs, and Kevin—

Fucking Kevin Day. It was a peculiar sort of relationship he and Seth shared. Seth couldn’t lie and say they never get along, but how much of it was sincere and how much was it playing docile to The Family’s favorite pet—the same pet that had no idea there were chains around his neck in the first place? And how much of it was playing nice and passive (however nice and passive Seth could possibly be) knowing full well Kevin wasn’t the only one being watched—that Matthew Boyd had just as clear instructions to report back to Ichirou about Seth as Seth was to report of Matt?

The Family found out about Seth’s fuck up with the racquet through some one, after all.

Oh, Seth was going to _crucify_ Boyd six ways to Sunday the next time he saw the man. Damn their faux camaraderie.

“Andrew, stop.” The short but firm insistence came from none other than Kevin. He was looking between his partner and Seth, the latter who, for all of his boasting, knew not to take the weapon to his throat lightly. “Someone will see you.”

For the moment, the first floor of Wreck was mostly empty. Most of the coaches were gone by then. Even the Concussion Specialist who had been meeting with Kevin before closing time to check up on his head injury had disappeared into their office. But even for a place like Foxborough, a student threatening another with a blade wasn’t going to go unacknowledged for long.

“Thanks for the concern, Day,” Seth gritted out. He didn’t dare move any more than that.

While Nicky tried reasoning with Andrew to not commit homicide even if it was for a noble sake, and while Erik and Kevin had to focus on restraining Allison from murdering Andrew, Andrew leaned his head down to Seth’s ear.

“Someone took a beating today,” he snickered. Seth choked back a groan. Minyard was buzzed. Of fucking course. “And here you are, asking for more.” The knife pressed closer to Seth’s skin, enough for a drop or two of blood to bubble to the surface. “Didn’t realize you were such a masochist, Gordon.”

“They’ll lock you up,” Seth warned. He wasn’t exactly afraid of Andrew killing him, though the possibility wasn’t entirely out the window since Minyard was in his manic state from whatever high he was riding. But that didn’t mean he was looking forward to having his throat slit in any case. “You wouldn’t fucking dare kill me and leave Kevin alone to—“

“I wouldn’t?” Andrew’s low whisper was hot gravel in Seth’s ear. What the fuck was taking so long for someone to stop this? “Oh, dear me. I didn’t realize you knew my intentions. Care to share with the class what you _think I dare?_ ”

Since Seth’s pain threshold was inversely proportional to his patience, he considered doing just that when there came a jostle above him and Andrew’s hand was suddenly yanked right—

—dagger slicing across previously unmarked skin.

_“Seth!”_

A cold gust of wind licked under Seth’s jaw.

It almost felt nice, but…

But there was no wind.

Something wet trickled down his neck.

 _“Andrew you fucking_ _monster_ _.”_

The noises in his ears grew, internal antiphons.

_“Baby, baby, oh God…”_

Casualty and Entropy. Cause and effect.

_“You’re gonna be okay, Seth, alright? Listen, baby, it’s going to be okay.”_

Allison’s arms, around his waist. Hands on his cheek; on his bruises. Now one on his shoulder, holding him up. The other on his neck, trapping him in. His blood. Oh God, his blood. Seeping out, coating her fingers….

“Bravo.” Andrew clapped his hands together in short, staccato beats, hilt of his barely stained blade curled back against his wrist. “Subpar performance, as usual. I see those acting lessons still haven’t paid off. When’s the next show?”

“Fuck,” Allison rattled, “you so much, Andrew.” Allison wouldn’t even look at Andrew as she kept her hand pressed to Seth’s throat, which was…not as deep a wound as he initially thought. It was barely more than a graze, actually. It wouldn’t even scar. He would have laughed if he weren’t so shaken.

 _“Das kannst du doch nicht machen!_ ” Nicky high pitched shout stole everyone’s attention. Seth almost had the inclination he was about to get attacked again. But when he looked up, Nicky was in Andrew’s personal space, waving his hands and berating the blonde in thick German.

Andrew laughed. Once. It was enough to stop Nicky mid-sentence, and Erik had to pull Nicky back, whispering something soothing in his ear that Seth couldn’t understand while watching Minyard warily.

“Fucking lunatic,” Seth muttered loud enough for Andrew to hear.

Kevin glared at them both. “You’re not blameless, G,” he told the first. “We saw what happened. What the hell was that about?”

Seth ignored Allison’s proffered hand and hauled himself to his feet. “Fuck off, man. It’s none of your business.”

“Seth,” Allison started, but Kevin cut her off.

“Nicky’s my _friend_. I’ll make it my business.” He shook his head and gestured to Seth’s face. “And what the hell is that? Still trying to start fights?” He smirked then and lightly tapped his head, a hint of self-deprecatory humor in his expression. “One wasn’t enough for you?”

Seth wasn’t having it. “I _said_ fuck off.” _And that I’m sorry._ He didn’t add the last part.

Kevin’s smile quickly turned acid, and for once Seth could see the lemon burns Day left in his wake that had people like Andrew following closely on his heel.

“You’re my friend too, Seth,” Kevin said with those sour eyes. “But you’re right. It’s not my business. So next time I’ll remember to _not_ stop Andrew when he’s ready to draw and quarter you.”

Seth bit back a hellish grin. It would serve him right for Kevin to do that. After everything Seth had told The Family, after Seth had installed the video cameras and listening bugs in David Wymack’s house, after Seth had helped Matt dig into Andrew’s background with OCRA…

Seth only ever lied to himself. He’d never been Kevin Day’s friend. And Kevin was just stupid enough to think he was Seth’s.

A commotion to their right pulled their attention again. Allison was spitting words at Andrew, the latter of whom was busy ignoring her while cleaning the flat of his blade with his sleeve. A trickle of vermillion stained his corduroy and he wrinkled his nose at the sight.

“Give it up, Alli, it’s over,” Seth told her, nudging her arm. “There’s no use trying to communicate with nutters.”

“Oh, you bastard,” Kevin breathed, stepping forward. Andrew had to do nothing but raise his hand and Kevin froze, but Day shook with the restraint. Nicky groaned. Erik whispered something else in German, and Nicky covered his eyes.

“Ignore him,” Andrew whisper-shouted to Kevin, moving a hand to wall his mouth in a faux-conspiratorial manner. “There’s no use when it comes to tattle-tales.”

Seth’s mouth started to drop open and Kevin blinked in confusion, but Allison had had enough. Curling a protective hand around Seth’s bicep, she seethed at the blonde, “You’ll regret this, Minyard.” To her beloved: “Come. We’ll report this to the Dean.”

Seth’s eyes shot up. “That’s not necessary.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not.”

“ _Seth_.”

Seth shook his head. “I said no.”

The expression on Allison’s face as she looked between Gordon and the armed gremlin was part confusion and part disgust. “Why wouldn’t you report this? He fucking tried to _kill_ you.”

They both ignored Andrew’s scoff and following, “I do not _try_ to kill, Reynolds. If I wanted him dead, you would have a head in your lap.”

But Seth knew he had no answer to offer her that she could ever understand, except for the truth. He thought of Ichirou’s hand flying across his face—once, twice, over and over. Metal against flesh, bones against blood. A warning, one that would be fulfilled sooner than Seth even knew. He should’ve visited his sister during break after all.

But fine. Let Minyard gloat for now. He was as stupid as his obsession, Seth decided. Minyard, so intent on protecting Day and his family. Yet so lethally unaware of just how deep The Family already had their claws wrapped around the manic agent.

Around them all.

“Not reporting,” Seth insisted once again to her. “It's taken care of.”

II.

“This doesn’t make sense. Why the fuck wouldn’t you report what happened?”

“I said no.”

“That’s not an answer—“

_“Je m'en fiche.”_

“Neil—“

Neil met Kevin’s beseeching eyes and counted to five before turning away with a sigh. “I already told you. I don’t want to.”

They were sat in Metamorphosis, one of the three small dining halls on campus. The bistro, most students agree, is most suited for last-minute studying and hangover recovery. Not well-suited, Neil decides, for afternoon arguing while still nursing the last of his comedown.

“Oh, he doesn’t want to,” Kevin repeats, false-nonchalance lacing his words. “Why would—Christ. _How_ can you possibly let what happened go without penalty? You could’ve _died_.”

Neil rubs his face in has hands and does his best not to lose his cool with Kevin. It’s not Day’s fault that there’s no readily available answer he could hope to understand. Other than the truth, of course, which is one hundred and eighty-five percent out of question.

“It’s no one’s business,” Neil tries saying, but Kevin won’t hear it.

“Neil, what if whoever drugged you does that to someone else?” Kevin demands.

Neil shrugs. “Not my problem.”

“That’s—“ Kevin leans his elbows forward on the cherry wood table they’re sitting in across from each other and groans into his hands. “You’re missing the point.”

“No,” Neil draws out the word. “I don’t _care_ about the point. There’s a difference.”

“More people could get hurt if the authorities don’t know.”

“The ‘ _authorities_ ’?” Neil hisses. “Since when do you think the authorities care? We’re Fox investments. That’s like—that’s like wearing a big red neon sign that says ‘don’t touch me, I’m radioactive’.”

Kevin stares at Neil for a count of five before chuckling sadly. He scrubs his hands over his face and into his hair and Neil has to look away before he gets emotional over how Kevin can captivate him with such a simple act

“You’re right,” Kevin mutters. “You’re so fucking right. I hate it.”

“It’s fine.”

“Shut up.”

Neil cracks a sad smile. “Make me.”

One day. They took a one day break to cool down. To recuperate. After much insistence, Kevin and Andrew did finally leave Neil’s apartment. But only after a firm promise that they’d be checking up on Neil the next day (Kevin) and an even firmer reminder for Neil not to do anything stupid (Andrew).

“And for fuck’s sake,” Andrew had added as he and Kevin walked out the door, “check your texts.”

Neil, to the complete and utter surprise of no one, did not check his texts. Which was why, at eight o’clock sharp after his run the next morning, he’d been startled by a very tired and grumpy Kevin Day at his door. The latter had been holding a cup of coffee (no cream) for himself and coffee (no sugar) for Neil.

“You didn’t check your texts,” Kevin stated in lieu of a greeting.

Even if Neil had an answer for him, which he didn’t, it wouldn’t have made a difference as Kevin was already pushing the extra cup of coffee into Neil’s hands, a question on his lips.

Neil startled again, but his response was immediate. “ _Yeah_.”

The press of Kevin’s mouth to his was quick and chaste, but it didn’t stop the plunge Neil’s stomach took at the soft heat. He found himself leaning in when Kevin pulled away, chasing empty air.

“We’re meeting Andrew for lunch,” Kevin said. Seeing Neil’s unabashed enthusiasm, he grinned and gave in to one more kiss before stepping inside the door. “I thought I’d check to see how you’re feeling first, since—” he chuckled sarcastically—“I couldn’t reach you over phone."

“I’m fine,” Neil shrugged, though the coffee-flavored sting leftover by Kevin’s lips would argue different. “Headache, is all. Tired. But fine, other than that.”

Kevin hadn’t looked convinced. He wore the same expression he does now, frowning ever so slightly at Neil from across the table.

“That was a joke,” Neil says, clearing his throat awkwardly. He meant to at least make Kevin laugh, or roll his eyes. Or kiss him again. Not for him to look at Neil like Neil’s a wounded puppy.

“I know, I know.” Kevin’s fingers play unconsciously with the laminated plastic of the menu in front of him. “It’s just…”

Now Neil rolls his eyes. “What?” He snaps.

“Is this okay?” Kevin sighs when Neil gives him a blank look. “Like…This. What we’re doing. You and me and Andrew.”

“Lunch?”

“Fucking _hell_ —you know what I mean. Asshole,” Kevin adds.

“I…” Neil hesitates, his cheeks warming against his will. It’s hard to say the words, but he knows it’s true, and he needs to put it out there at some point. “Kev, I _don’t_ know what we’re doing. I—” he has to stop again and reorder his thoughts.

“You know my feelings for you guys,” Neil continues. “But I don’t know how to deal with them, with-with _this_. I mean, fuck Kev. You and ‘drew have been together for so long.”

_And I have so little time left._

Kevin hears the unspoken question in Neil’s words. “Yeah, we have. That doesn’t change anything, especially not how we feel about you.” Kevin sighs again. “Is that…Is that a problem for _you?_ ”

Neil groans and Kevin’s shoulders sag in relief. “ _Bien sûr que non._ I just…I’ve never done relationships before, Kevin. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Another short, ironic laugh breaks out of Kevin. He crosses his arms over the table and leans into them. “Join the club. I heard Andrew’s president.”

Neil doesn’t laugh but something akin to fondness settles uncomfortably in his chest. He doesn’t fear it as much as he thought he would.

“Presidency? Terrifying thought,” murmurs the very same Andrew, appearing behind Neil. He’s grabbed a chair from an empty table and places it on the square side between Neil and Kevin. “I would be impeached.”

Kevin snorts, but Neil doesn’t miss the quiet, adorative gaze he rakes over Andrew. The exact same one he catches Kevin giving Neil when Kevin thinks Neil’s not watching. Or even yet, the one Neil offers Andrew when he knows Andrew’s eyes are locked on his. In many ways, they’re all three an endless cycle of adoration, worshipping the other with the same due attention they receive. An altar of themselves, a god for each. It’s as terrifying as it is beautiful, as blasphemous as it is holy.

“Assassinated, more like,” Kevin returns.

“Would, not should.”

“ _J'ai dit ce que j'ai dit_ ,” Kevin mutters into his water glass. Andrew flicks his cheek. “So how was the appointment?”

“Horrendous,” Andrew says easily. “Beelzebub’s same as ever.”

The mandatory check-up with Dobson, once again, ended with Dobson’s calm reminder that their boss, Ngoek, was always just one phone call away if Andrew wanted to keep up his obtuse behavior. During their sessions. Andrew almost never had any updates he considered worthwhile to inform her, save for some few exceptions. Considering Dobson’s job as a campus counselor is only a front for her undercover dealings with OCRA, not being able to check in with Andrew’s progress on finding out who’s been targeting him, among other worries, is a pressing issue.

But pushing Dobson’s buttons is half the fun for Andrew.

It’s not long after a waiter comes to take their order. Meta is the only dining hall on campus that offers wait service, and is entirely student run. Kevin and Andrew seem to know the worker, Jean, well. They exchange a few words in French when Neil feels an incoming message come through his burner where it lay in his pant’s pocket. He only has notifications on for one person, so there’s no need to guess who it is. He curses to himself.

“ _Votre nourriture sera bientôt prête,_ ” Jean tells the three when they’re done writing down the orders and chatting. Kevin thanks him and he departs, leaving Neil to have to check his messages later.

While Kevin asks Andrew a few more follow up questions about Andrew’s (nonexistent) medical check-up, Neil looks the blonde over. Black cashmere turtleneck, plaid chino’s, Tobias Saint boots. But more than that. There’s tears in his pants, the same style you’d expect on ripped jeans or if you got in a fight with some scissors. The boots are obviously worn in, no more shine that may have once suggested they’d been cared for. There’s also some stain on the left heel, but in the bistro’s light its impossible to tell if it’s a sheen of mud or worse.

Typical Andrew, Neil thinks. A proud mix of outrageously expensive menswear and unstable depreciation for material things. The privilege reeks and, mixed with the blood and sweat of Andrew’s past, makes like heroine for Neil’s senses.

“Cat got your tongue, Neil?” Andrew’s question draws Neil’s eyes up to the man’s face.

“What?”

“Your intentions,” Andrew says with a slight stress as if he’s repeating himself and not happy about it. Neil realizes he must’ve missed something important, and his mind races to fill in the gaps.

“My _intentions_ …” Neil draws out the word to fill in space while he thinks. Surely Andrew’s not referencing Neil’s mission? Neil takes a quick look at Kevin’s face for context, but Kevin doesn’t seem confused or suspicious, just…waiting for Neil’s answer.

“With _us_ ,” Andrew clarifies, leaning forward to hook a foot around Neil’s chair and pull the man closer to the table.

“Oh. Right.” He’s still lost.

Andrew doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes, but Neil can feel the terse annoyance rolling off him in waves. Something else too. Andrew’s just as tense as Kevin, but in his own way. Not physically in the sense that Kevin is, with his arms crossed on the table before him, biting his lip as he waits, almost holding his breath—but in his mood, short statements and stoic expression a mask to hide whatever’s unsettling him.

And it’s with that realization that the meaning of what he’s asking dawns on Neil.

“I…” Neil taps at the condensation pooling on his own glass of ice water. “I don’t have any intentions.” Andrew’s eyes narrow ever so slightly before placating once more and Neil hurries to correct himself. “Nothing more than what you guys are willing to have with me.”

“I am not here to barter.”`

“Deja vu,” Kevin mutters. They ignore him.

“Neither am I,” Neil says. “I’m just saying…” he scrapes a hand through his hair and notices how Kevin’s eyes linger on one of the scars of Neil’s wrist from where his sleeve has slightly pulled up. “I’m not sure what exactly it is you’re offering. But I want whatever that is.”

There’s a beat and Andrew says, “Security.”

Neil thinks of another time in a near identical position: a man sitting across from Neil, full of confidence and false power, offering him _Security_. But Stuart preached a whole different version, one that still came at a cost. What kind of security did Andrew offer? And what would it cost Neil this time?

Kevin raises a brow, but whether it’s at Andrew’s word choice or at the blonde pulling out a pack of Parliaments, Neil can’t say.

“Security?” Neil repeats. Testing the waters.

Andrew doesn’t answer. Rather, he leans forward and, instead of using a lighter, places the tip of his cigarette to the lit candle wick on the table. Kevin and Neil both watch the stub catch, white paper turning molten. Andrew offers a heated look to them in return when he curls his lips around the tab.

“Trying to kill a sailor?” Neil mutters, unable to take his eyes off the junction between the cigarette and where it meets Andrew’s skin.

“Or get us kicked out?” Kevin adds. Though not as amused that Andrew’s decided to light up in the middle of Meta.

“Careful,” Andrew returns to Neil. “Superstition is not a joke.”

“No,” Neil agrees sagely. “It’s a goddamn lie.”

“And tell me—” he continues and, in a sudden burst of bravado, leans farther forward in his chair to pluck the cigarette from Andrew’s mouth and place it in his own—“how the fuck that’s any different from your idea of security.”

Kevin’s eyes are scanning the bistro for any sign of someone in charge, not really paying attention to Neil and Andrew’s foreplay. “Um. Guys, you probably shouldn’t—“

“Our poor little fox,” Andrew lowers his voice. Almost mocking, though his flat tone doesn’t change. “Unable to tell truth from lie. What is that like? So consumed in your own fears. You don’t even see who’s trying to help.”

Kevin’s attention finally settles on Andrew’s strange words. “What?”

Andrew doesn’t answer him but continues to stare unblinking at Neil, who’s taking a long drag and looking at the tabletop, trying (and failing) to ignore the way Andrew said _our_.

The _little_ part isn’t sitting as well with Neil, though.

“No one can help me,” Neil states. Not sadly, not in frustration, just…states. “And quite frankly, I don’t appreciate you giving me false hope in—“

“Neil, if this is about your father, you know that’s not an issue with us,” Kevin cuts it. Neil looks to him because it’s easier than looking at the first tell-tell signs of real annoyance beginning to cut through Andrew at the implications his promises aren’t sincere. “Everyone at Fox has some shit to deal with, right? I do. Andrew sure as shit does—“

Andrew kicks Kevin’s leg under the table and steals the cigarette back from Neil.

“—and you do too,” Kevin says, slightly wincing at the jab but undeterred. “It’s not like it’s the end of the world, okay? We’re not asking you to marry us.”

“What _are_ you asking?” Neil can’t stand the tip-toeing anymore.

“I…” Kevin shudders in a short breath as he looks to Andrew for..for what? Reassurance? Permission?

Whatever it is, he must have found it because he nods once and says, “Neil Josten.” Neil has to hide a rueful smirk at the formal address. “I think you have the power to break a man’s heart. But you can also bring two together…Or three.” Kevin, for all his worth, isn’t a particularly shy man. But the small, abashed smile that then splits his features could put any model to shame in Neil’s opinion. Kevin’s fingers tap distractedly at the wood counter and, without a word or a glance, Andrew places the one not holding his cigarette on Kevin’s thigh under the table. For some reason, and a quietly beautiful one at that to witness, it causes a gentle stillness to wash over Kevin when he says, “I don’t want to speak for ‘drew. But we talked. And we agree that we like you. A lot.”

“Don’t push it,” Andrew mutters, and that makes Neil laugh despite himself.

“And we don’t give a shit about labels,” Kevin continues. “if that would make you uncomfortable. What matters is what feels right to all of us. What I—and Andrew—“Andrew squeezes Kevin’s thigh lightly, once—“know is right.”

“And Neil, you’re right for us,” Kevin finishes. “From the minute I met you—“  
  
“Alright,” Andrew cuts in, exhaling smoke. “Save the marriage proposal for later.”

Of all the languages he knows, Neil can’t quite find the right word to place his emotions. Hope? But no, hope is too dark, too dangerous. Relief? But what Kevin is proposing should only worsen Neil’s fears.

Though, then again, Ichirou said to get as close to Kevin Day as possible. For all intents and purposes, Neil isn’t breaking any rules.

But that’s another problem. Neil doesn’t _want_ to do anything that would help Ichirou. As much as the thought of Kevin’s deep laughter, or Andrew’s intoxicating gaze, whether together or separate, both pull him under the waters like goddamn sirens leading him towards perdition. But the alternative is suffocating on land, chained on to the rocks The Family has him entrapped.

And what Kevin’s saying…it’s really not any different from what they have going on already, right? Now,they’re just kicking the elephant in the room in the shins. That’s all.

“What if I come between you?” Neil has to ask like the bastard man he is. Because he can’t ever do things easily.

But neither do Andrew nor Kevin.

“Coming between,” Kevin says patiently, though he wraps Neil’s hand in his over the table, “is much different than belonging with. And I’d argue that we’re the latter.”

Neil tries to focus on the calloused, careful palm of Kevin’s skin and not the waterfall flooding his chest and escaping into his lungs. It’s an unusual feeling, foreign. But not wrong.

“Cheesy bastard,” Neil manages to say and Kevin laughs.

Andrew raises Neil’s glass of water and hooks his foot around Neil’s ankle under the table. His own crooked path of connection. “Cheers,” he says.

“So, is that yes, Neil?” Kevin asks, expression sobering. He runs his scarred index over an old burn on Neil’s knuckle. “Or no?”

“What did you mean by security?” Neil asks Andrew instead of answering just yet. Because he knows what he wants to say, but he can’t if he isn’t certain that what Andrew’s promising will keep the pair safe from Neil’s world. He doesn’t know the extent of the strings that OCRA can pull behind the scenes, but he’d rather be safe than sorry. It’s bad enough he’s almost about to properly agree to some sort of relationship with the two when Kevin doesn’t even know that Andrew and Neil are part of…

All Neil can hope for, that when this is all said and done, is that either The Family will kill Neil brutally without Day ever knowing, or Kevin can wield the blade himself. And even then, it won’t make up for the selfish motherfucker that Neil’s always been.

 _Promise me you two will be safe,_ Neil tells Andrew with his eyes. _Promise me that’s the security you mean. That you’ll protect him._

And Neil knows Andrew understands because he says, “Exactly what you want it to mean.”

“Then yes,” Neil finally says, and it’s a rush of oxygen to his bloodstream. The look that overcomes Kevin then, laurel eyes lighting up like holiday lights; the satisfied, near imperceptible hum that comes from Andrew from around the stub in his mouth—it’s all more addictive than the Dust that still thrums in the back of Neil’s system. He takes a sip of water. It’s Kevin’s glass, and he thinks it oddly domestic that they can’t seem to even keep their own damn drinks to themselves.

It’s probably the one and only thing that can ever be domestic about them, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Now that that’s out of the way—” Andrew starts in German. But he doesn’t have a chance to finish when someone appears next to the table, cutting him off.

“Sir,” the cleaner doing their rounds says, "I’ll have to ask you to please put out that cigarette—“

Signing up to work at Foxborough comes with a whole clause of recognized hazards. But even that wasn’t enough to prepare the unfortunate janitor to be stabbed in the thigh by the butt of a still smoldering cigarette for just using their manners.

“Andrew, _fucking hell_ —“

The worker curses in time to Kevin’s own admonition, the former clutching at their upper leg while Kevin jumps out of his seat to offer the person some ice from his water. The cigarette didn’t burn through the jean’s fabric, but it’ll certainly leave a mark on the skin. Behind the howling person, Jean has stopped with their tray of food. But with one tired look at the scene, he turns and walks back toward the kitchens.

“Why are you yelling?” Andrew deadpans. “I did what you said.”

Neil’s mouth parts at the sight. He knows he’s a _mudak_ for finding it funny, but…He catches Andrew’s raised brow, who drops the now-stubbed out cigarette in Neil’s water glass, and can’t help but turn his head away and laugh.

Neil never does find out what it was Andrew was going to say, because then Andrew’s getting verbally dragged away to go see the Dean for his offense—

(“I refuse to speak without my attorney present,” Andrew’s telling the janitor, while the latter responds in a mix of curses and threats about suing Andrew. Which is horseshit. Andrew could set them on fire—literally—and OCRA would have him covered. Though his life insurance must be through the roof, Neil reckons.

“You don't have an attorney, Andrew,” Kevin’s saying.

"Beside the point."

"I'm—just go." Kevin gestures toward the fuming janitor who's already taken out their phone to call, presumably, the Dean. "You made your bed and now you're damn well going to lie in it."

 _“Et tu, brute?”_ )

—and Neil is left alone, once again, with Kevin.

“Did that really just happen?” Neil wonders as Jean comes back with the food, setting the plates (now one extra) down as quickly as possible and departing without a word. Neil doesn’t blame him.

“I know,” Kevin groans into his hands. It’s an endearing sight. “I can’t believe—no. Fuck, that’s a lie. I _can_ believe he’d do that, but I mean. Holy shit. Andrew knows he can’t just—“

“Not Andrew,” Neil interrupts. “We’re…you two were actually serious. You think I—” he thinks of the way Kevin phrased it. “You think I belong with you. Both of you.”

Kevin blinks at the contrast in their two focuses but jumps onto the train of thought after his initial vertigo. “No, Neil. I _know_ that you belong with us. Andrew does too. He’s just too stubborn to say so out loud.”

Neil would disagree. Andrew _has_ said so, in his own way. They all have their little quirks, and Andrew’s stubborn stoicism is just a mask for the oceans crashing below the surface. Neil tells Kevin as much, and the smile that adorns Kevin’s features at Neil’s words could have set those oceans on fire.

III.

“Oh God,” the first woman says.

“What?” says the second.

“He’s in trouble.”

“Who?”

The first woman nods her head toward Metamorphosis’ doors where a man is being led by some staff member, the former who looks bored and the other who’s grabbing at their upper thigh like they’ve been stabbed.

Oh shit.

“He _is_ trouble,” the second woman says under her breath. “He’s going to kill someone one of these days.”

That bridge has already been crossed, but the woman decides not to tell her partner that. “I’m sorry, dear. I’ll be right back, but I need to go make sure everything’s alright.”

“What— _Renee_.”

But she’s already sliding out of the booth seat and grabbing her coat. “I’m really sorry, Alli. Ten minutes, tops. I promise I’ll be back in no time.”

Despite her bewilderment, Allison still accepts Renee’s kiss, cradling her hand around the standing woman’s cheek. “Ten minutes. I’m counting.”

Renee smiles, too full of emotion to have this wonderful person in her life and keeping her accountable. “I’ll bring you flowers,” she promises.  
  
Allison _humphs_. “They better be expensive.”

She kisses Renee one last time before Renee heads out, pulling up her coat collar to brace for the cold.

Directly across the packed bistro, Neil turns his head before either woman can see him watching. Facing Kevin once more, back to where the other man’s gesturing animatedly with a panini in one hand and talking about the rise and fall of Egypt’s Twenty-Ninth Dynasty for some…well, Neil missed what Kevin’s point was. A joke about being related to some Amyrtaeus in other life because of all the shit Andrew puts Kevin through.

“But then again, Memphis wouldn’t be the worst place to die,” Kevin muses before biting into his sandwich.

Neil blinks. “Tennessee?”

Neil has no idea why Kevin’s laughing.

IV.

The pads of his fingers trace a million inked corpses. Flesh on spine, the calloused, scarred skin of his hands running disjointed down each aisle. Crescent glows from table lamps offer just enough light to see by, but he’s not really looking.

Books have been dead to Neil for a long, long time.

Witherspear is quiet most of the day, but it’s most lonesome at night. The third floor, haunted by too many ghosts and grim memories, welcomes Neil almost as well as a stuffy coffin. The air smells of copper and clove, but Neil’s only interested in the former. He’s cut his index on one of the passing pages and he frowns down at the droplet of blood bubbling to the skin’s surface.

He slides his lips over the skin and sucks in, his cheeks hollowing, and lets the taste of iron linger on his tongue.

With his other hand, he reaches for the book that cut him.

There was never a need to read for pleasure while on the run. Mary wouldn’t have it. She once kept a small stack of old novels and paperbacks in the trunk of their car, but she threw away the pile the day she found Neil distracted with one when he was supposed to have been studying their map.

He’d made a mess of the pages then, too. It was a few months before Mary died, and they’d been stalling on the outskirts of Washington state, right next to an abandoned cherry orchard. The trees had grown wild, untamed. Nature is at her peak, terrifying and unhinged in her beauty, once removed from humankind.

So they’d picked as many of the fruit as they could eat, and saved some from later. Neil’s fingertips had stained so red they were almost purple, and for a full day the sight of the cherry blood held his interest. Thumbing through an old Chekhov in its original Russian print, aptly named though the significance was lost on Neil at the time, the stains from the fruit marked the dusty pages. Mary had taken one look at the flaxen paper, then dotted with cherry prints, and yanked the manuscript right from Neil’s hands. He’d had a grip on the page he was on, and it tore in two pieces when Mary had forced it from him.

At the time, he hadn’t known the name for the lurch in his chest upon seeing the ripped carcass of a book that Mary continued to shred, snapping each page from its spine. It was the cruelest of all evils, he’d supposed, to murder an innocent. The book had never done his mother wrong. But there are no bargains to be made between lions and men, and his mother was the former surrounded by the latter. She told Neil to go back to the map, to the rivers and valleys and abandoned dreams that made up the world’s labyrinth. She’d hit him with the book’s remains, too. Right in the shoulder where a still healing bullet wound had lay. He didn’t even flinch, but his heaving ribs revolted.

He hadn’t known it then. But now, he recognizes the signs of grief.

Flipping open the book he’d pulled from the shelf, Neil idly skims and skips through various pages. He didn’t catch the title, and there’s nothing here to catch his interest. He replaces the book for another that rests alongside the first. He’s in the nonfiction section and wonders if that’s why everything seems so bland. The bastards in their knock-off tweed vests like to say that truth is stranger than fiction, but there’s nothing strange about men who kill men and children who die young. Survival is as part of nature as is surrender. It’s fiction that makes things complicated with its fairytales and hollow morals.

_Time and Tracks: An In-Depth Look into Fox—_

Yawn. Neil’s learned more than enough about the shit excuse for the “premier” learning institute he’s caged within. Next.

 _Maze of Madness_. Pathetic. The only person who’d ever be interested enough in Oakes Ames’ autobiography would have been Ames himself. The man lived a horribly tedious and fragile life, surprising for the same person who gave life to such an infamous Academy. Neil near throws the book back.

 _Pillars of Success_. Now that sounds more interesting. Neil looks at the author’s name and wonders if Anurag Anand still has his pillars, or if they too fell like Samson and the Philistines. Nothing manmade can ever last for long. A lifetime, maybe. But all lives end. A century, perhaps, but even turtles outlive that. A millennium or two, if by a miracle, but a couple thousand years—hell, ten thousand, twenty thousand, one _million_ —is nothing compared to the tumbleweed that blows in the eye of creation.

The device in Neil’s pocket finally vibrates. He doesn’t need a mirror to know of the grin that’s splitting his face. He changed his notification settings. But when he pulls out the phone and looks at the screen, the message isn’t from who he’s expecting.

_00:00._

_Update._

Shit.

He’d called earlier, right after he left lunch with Kevin. Andrew had never returned, and Kevin decided to go stalk the man down. After Neil declined the offer to come with, he’d caught a bus line to his apartment and made his weekly report.

So what the fuck _now_ did Ichirou—

“Can I help you find anything?”

Neil slides the phone into his pocket and turns towards the voice. The person’s behind him, red curls three shade brighter than his auburn pulled back in two tight buns. Holding a small stack of books in their hands, they gesture with their chin toward Neil.

“Um, no. I’m just, uh…” Neil cocks his head. “You work here?”

“Student volunteer. Gets me service hours,” Red explains and shifts their pile of books onto one elbow to free up a hand. “You’re Neil, yeah?”

Neil bites the inside of his cheek. “How did you…?”

“I’m dating Andrew’s brother.” That’s explanation enough; Neil’s not sure what he did other than exist, but Aaron has made it clear in no uncertain terms that he hates Neil.

Red extends their free hand. “Katelyn.” The pleasant smile on Katelyn’s face doesn’t quite reach their eyes. But what’s more interesting are the two x-shaped scars, one under each heavily mascara’d lash. Even with Neil’s own wounds, he can’t help but take a certain curiosity in the way the other person’s skin has been cut so precisely, so symmetrically, almost like a brand.Like the illustrated _x_ signaling a journey’s end on old maps, the damaged skin serves as its own reminder of whatever trials they must have endured to make it so far. Neil’s so momentarily taken aback by the harsh reminder of his own reflected injuries it takes a moment for Katelyn’s words to sink in.

“Neil,” Neil says and shakes their hand before slipping his hands into his pockets. “I mean—well, you already knew that. So you’re Aaron’s better half.”

Katelyn’s low chuckle breaks through the frost in the air and Neil relaxes. Slightly. “Andrew would slit your throat if he heard you say that.”

Neil’s teeth flash. “I’d like to see him try.”

“A challenge would do the bastard some good,” Katelyn hums in agreement. It’s a weird sort of a thing to say. Also untrue. Andrew _only_ seems to be dealing with challenges these days—Neil being one of them—and Neil can count on one hand how absolutely _not good_ those challenges have been fairing for the man in the past week alone. 

A thought soaked in cherry blood occurs to Neil and he inclines his head towards the shelves. “Hey, so. I changed my mind on that offer. Can you show me where your playwrights are? Nineteenth, twentieth century, preferably.”

“ _My_ playwrights?” Katelyn smirks.

Neil doesn’t falter. “Did I stutter?”

“Ooo, touchy.” The smirk lingers but their eyes narrow. But they turn regardless and beckon Neil to follow. “What’s the occasion, hmm? Just some light reading? Get your rocks off to buzzed European shits?”

Their tone is light but the edges cut. Obtrusive, like barbed wire. “Any more questions and I’ll start to think this is an interview.”

“Who said it wasn’t?” There’s that smirk again, and Neil can’t resist saying, “You know, I never said I cared about the European ones. That’s quite the assumption.”

Katelyn isn’t fazed. “Am I wrong?”  
  
“My tastes aren’t so dismal. Usually.”

Katelyn rolls their eyes and sets one of the books they’re carrying onto a shelf they pass. “Everyone is like everyone here, Neil. Mundanity breeds mediocrity, and vice versa. _You_ assume too highly of yourself.”

Now it’s Neil narrowing his eyes at the back of Katelyn’s head. “Funny. You don’t know me.”

At this, Katelyn stops and tilts their head. “Do you?”

Neil closes his mouth. He can feel his phone burning a sinkhole into his pocket, along with the other evidence.

They keep walking.

“It’s for Highland, if you must know,” Neil tells Katelyn. “Post-Naturalism research for the capstone he’s giving us.”

“I don’t,” Katelyn offers.

“What?”

“I do not,” they repeat, “ _must_ know. But thanks for the spiel.”

Neil blinks. “You asked.”

“Yes, but I don’t really care.” For some reason, that makes Neil laugh. Katelyn finds his response amusing. “Highland, though,” they murmur, almost to themself. “Now there’s a guy whose throat I’d like to slit.” Neil can sympathize: his Enlightenment to Early Modernism professor is a man whose personality could put Stuart’s ruthlessness to shame. Contrary to what he tells Kevin, Neil does have perfectly sufficient grades. But The Family’s casual influence on that matter is probably the only reason Neil is passing Highland’s course.

Katelyn makes a right and leads Neil towards the outskirts of the third floor’s west wing. A handful of balconies are spaced intermittently on the west and east walls. Neil wonders which of the balconies was the one Seth took his last breath on.

A few more aisles pass, and Katelyn pauses in another to quickly return a second book they’re carrying into place. They come back out and lead Neil another few feet before stopping.

“Here we are,” Katelyn says and taps a paint-chipped nail over the spines of a few long-dead trees. “Any particular name in mind? I can’t promise anyone with true originality worth their salt, but—well,” they shrug, nonchalant, “to each their own, and all that bull.”

Neil decides then and there he doesn’t quite hate Katelyn. There’s something interesting about them, no doubt. Their quick, sardonic humor isn’t unlike Neil’s own. “Chekhov, actually.”

Katelyn quirks a brow. “The Russian Realist? Interesting choice.” They obviously don’t expect a response, or, to quote their own words, they probably don’t _care_ about one because they’re already squatting down, eyes scanning the alphabetized books. “Ah. _Vot_.”

The switch to _russkiy_ is natural. _“Ty znayesh' yazyk.”_ He bends down next to them and looks over the various titles.

“I do. I grew up in Kazan,” Katelyn says, but offers no further explanation. Neil notes they don’t ask about his background. How much has Andrew told Aaron? How much would Aaron tell Katelyn?

It’s an impossible thought. Ridiculous, even. Andrew wouldn’t say anything. Neil shakes away the idea and reaches for the book he’s sought. There’s two copies in stock.

“This one’s not bad, actually.” Katelyn thumbs the cover of another book, idly flipping through the first few pages in the sort of familiar fashion one holds when passing an old acquaintance on the street.

Neil glances at the title. _Три сестры._ The sepia portraits of three young women, long dead and gone, stare back at him from the cover. Three souls, three shriveled ghosts, three monogrammed lives glued on the pages of misremembered history. What’s the world’s obsession with _three_ , anyway? Blasphemous Trinity.

Still holding the book he took from the shelf, Neil’s gaze slides from the one Katelyn’s holding to the small stack of books they’d brought with them to re-shelve. _A Noose for Me and You, The Complete Collection_ , reads the title of the book on top.

“Light reading?” Neil mocks.

Katelyn glances down to where Neil’s eyes are directed. “Oh, I like this one. It’s a Legacy.”

“A what?”

Katelyn repeats themself. “A work written by one of Fox’s earliest alums.” They pick up the small leather-bound and hand it over to Neil. “This one’s Claire’s.”

The name is familiar, but Neil can’t place it. He opens the book, its pages in good condition but obviously aged. There’s no table of contents, but skimming through Neil can tell the book is filled with poetry in both French and English, and maybe...Romanian?

Neil stops on a random page. Some of the poems are pages long. This one’s a single stanza. There’s no title for it.

_Five Shooting Stars_

_Gunning from the trenches._

_Boreas slaughtered Zephyr:_

_Parricidum—_

_A wordless surrender_

Puzzles pieces in his mind connect with the page. Five, fratricide, _wordless surrender_. “Mort Claire,” Neil murmurs. That’s why the name’s familiar. Kevin told him the story of the Fallen Five, one of Fox’s most famous, verified legends. It was known that Mort Claire never spoke of his comrades’ self-inflicted massacre. The fact he wrote a book, even if it's not a confession or anything of the sort….well, a Legacy indeed.

He flips a few more pages, different words jumping out at him. _La Tromperie du Coucou,_ is one title. _La Fraude, La Fraude,_ is another. Others, like the first poem, have no title, but a single roman numeral to signify a new piece. All equally unpromising as the previous.

“I’ll take this one, too.” Neil moves to stand with the Chekhov and Claire in his hands and Katelyn joins him with the rest of their stack.

“Alright, then. Whoever’s working the desk can check you out. I need to finish up with these.” Katelyn lifts their arms up in a gesture of showing the rest of the books they need to re-shelve and Neil thanks them for the help. “Don’t mention it. I needed an excuse to interview you, right?”

Neil scoffs at the joke, simultaneously realizing that Katelyn’s serious, too. An interesting paradox. “Sorry if I didn’t live up to expectations.”

Katelyn watches Neil for a brief moment as if thinking before saying, “Well. There are worse crimes.”

And like a paradox, they’re as right as they are wrong.

V.

Ten minutes and two checked-out books later, Neil’s sitting at one of the tables lining the third floor’s west wall. He’d sit on a balcony if he were able, but Witherspear locks the doors leading out to them after dark. So he settles for the sandy glow of the table lamp and oak backed chairs as he takes out the two objects from his pocket. Reading the message from Ichirou one more time, Neil frowns and stows the device away again. He’s more interested in the other item.

_“I’m dating Andrew’s brother,” Katelyn had said, sticking their hand out. “Katelyn.”_

_“Neil.” The scratch of their calloused palm against his wasn’t as surprising as the slip of paper discreetly passed over. Neil only managed to suppress his expression at the last moment and slid the note wordlessly into his pocket._

Now, Neil rubs the folded white note between his thumb and forefinger. He initially debates the dangers of opening it outside his apartment until his pressing interest wins out. Curiosity killed the cat, but who needs to fear the blade when you’re already tied under it?

When he reads the tiny, cursive scrawl, the need to curse out a storm is fierce. The urge to run as far, as fast as possible, away from any peering eyes is worse.

_Keep your eyes open, Nathaniel._

_Big Brother’s Watching You._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. EEEK the biggest of thanks to my friend mercury (@leloqier) for coming up with Seth’s sister’s name, Aspen, which means “Quaking Tree”. An ideal match for our Noose? Hmmmm. And the loveliest of thanks to may (@enola-holmess) for her help with German translations!
> 
> 2\. For reference to Neil’s “Trying to kill a sailor?” line, There’s an old superstition that lighting a cigarette with a candle will kill a sailor at sea. 
> 
> 3\. The book Neil was reading in the cherry orchard was The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov. Fun fact, I had already written the cherry orchard scene and started researching Russian classics when I came across Chekhov’s TCO. I literally couldn’t believe how coincidental the title was, so I had to make a reference to it lol. 
> 
> 4\. Anurag Anand is a real person who wrote Pillars of Success! I’ve never read it, nor do I know anything about the man. 
> 
> 5\. Maze of Madness, Time and Tracks, A Noose for Me and You, The Complete Collection, The Cuckoo’s Deceit, and La Fraude, La Fraude are all entities that ONLY exist within the realms of TITWTWE. I wrote the poem mentioned 
> 
> chapter title from KennyHoopla's song Dust
> 
> References to:  
> Richard siken, crush  
> Edgar Allan’s The Raven  
> Lorenz’ The Butterfly Effect  
> The Song of Achilles  
> George Orwell's 1984
> 
> Nonpareil: French for “not the same”. in this context, “Your Better/Superior”  
> “Das Buch wurde gestohlen. Ich glaube nicht, dass sie es tun wird—“ German for,  
> “The book was stolen. I don't think she will-"  
> “Das kannst du doch nicht machen!” German for, “You can’t do that!”  
> “je m'en fiche” french for “I dont care”  
> “Bien sûr que non” french for, “ofc not”  
> “J'ai dit ce que j'ai dit” french for “i said what I said”  
> “Votre nourriture sera bientôt prête,” french for “your food will be ready soon”  
> mudak or мудак, Russian for asshole


	22. If a Man is a Dog and a God is a Fraud Then We're a Lost Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I stand amid the roar  
> of a surf-tormented shore,  
> And I hold within my hand  
> Grains of the golden sand—  
> How few! yet how they creep  
> Through my fingers to the deep,  
> While I weep—while I weep!  
> O God! Can I not grasp  
> Them with a tighter clasp?  
> O God! can I not save  
> One from the pitiless wave?  
> Is all that we see or seem  
> But a dream within a dream?"  
> ~Edgar Allan Poe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: continued themes of drugs, cigarettes’, etc. there are two poems, the second one uses quite violently graphic imagery symbolizing a murder and a crucifixion. Talk of the fallen five, so continued mentions of murder, su*icide, a character punches a mirror that harms them. please see end notes for one other piece of info.
> 
> As mentioned, there are two poems within this chapter that I wrote specifically for titwtwe. Im kinda proud of ‘em *teary eyed emoji* so uhhh i really hope yall like them!!! and,,, thats it. Im just a happy mama bear rn lmao. These chapters were originally gonna go out around new years, but I got sick and decided to write instead of mope so whoop!! And happy holidays to anyone celebrating, please stay safe and practice social distancing <33

I.

Andrew and Kevin arrive soon after.

Neil hears them before he sees them. Kevin sounds annoyed, but then there’s a pause, presumably Andrew’s response spoken too low for Neil to hear, and then Kevin’s following snort.

Neil’s already burned the note in the fireplace across the room.

“—not like they can actually sue you,” Kevin’s saying.

And then Neil sees them, and even though he’s not close enough to feel the fire, his entire body catches heat like kindling.

“Neil,” Andrew says in lieu of a greeting. His gloved hand is wrapped around Kevin’s own, and he doesn’t bother letting go when he reaches up with his free hand to unravel the scarf around his neck.

Kevin takes one look at the table Neil’s at before turning his head toward the two leather chesterfields situated by the fireplace.

“Fine,” Neil smirks.

Kevin takes the corner seat and folds a leg underneath himself while Andrew drapes his scarf over a wall sconce. In short time, Neil’s gathered his books and placed himself beside Kevin and lets the taller man explain that Andrew got off with a warning from the Dean for his actions earlier that day.

“How?” Neil wonders. “He could’ve burned that—“

“He did,” Kevin sighs through gritted teeth. Andrew’s looking out one of the floor to ceiling windows as if they’re not even talking about him. “The Dean will reimburse them for any injury. But he can’t really do anything to...” he waves his hand dismissively at Andrew, which is explanation enough.

“Bastard move, Andrew,” Neil mutters. But that’s not to say he’s offended by what Andrew did. A person with morals might, but that’s never been Neil. Katelyn’s words ring in his ear. _Everyone’s like everyone, here_. “No wonder we get along.”

“Do we?” It’s the first thing Andrew says since he walked in with Kevin. He glances over from the window, candlelight illuminating his blonde hair like an ironic halo. If you didn’t know Andrew, you might call him there in that moment, surrounded by oak and ornament, something akin to beautiful. But he’s never been beautiful to Neil. He’s catastrophic, and Neil wouldn’t have him any other way.

Neil glances at Kevin, who’s looking at Andrew in a mixture of tired frustration and endless warmth. When Neil doesn’t respond, Kevin turns to the other man and matches Neil’s small smile.

“Do we?” Kevin repeats, tone bordering on a laugh.

“Yes,” Neil says, and not just to that question. Kevin hears it too and looks back over at Andrew, who just shrugs and says, “Well?”

The first touch of Kevin’s lips to Neil’s is almost a tease. Short, barely grazing his skin but still managing to set his nerve endings alight regardless. Then Kevin slows, letting his lips part for Neil to take over. It’s mutual surrender, the noblest of defeats. Neil’s teeth nip at Kevin’s lower lip and the man gasps silently, head tilting down for Neil to lean into. They breathe together and collide again, the mint from the gum Kevin had chewed overpowering Neil’s ash. His tongue barely licks into Kevin’s mouth, Neil’s own version of a tease, and the soft groan it elicits from Kevin is well worth the temperance.

Over and over and over they fall into each other’s orbit, past the point of no return and ardently unapologetic for it.

By the time they part, Andrew’s back to staring out the window, this time with a lit parliament in hand. Neil recognizes the distraction before he realizes the reason. “Bored, Minyard?”

Andrew exhales a cloud of smoke before facing the pair. His eyes rake over their slightly out of breath forms and, without a word in response, walks slowly over to their chesterfield.

“To death,” Andrew confirms. But the tick in his jaw gives him away and Neil can’t resist taking the cigarette from Andrew’s hand like he had done earlier at lunch. Not that Andrew puts up a fight because with both hands free, he can do something with them.

Kevin holds his breath as Andrew takes one last step forward, legs knocking against Kevin’s from where the latter sits before him. Even the threat of death couldn’t possibly make Neil tear his eyes away from the sight of Kevin looking up to Andrew with the same reverence reserved for gods.

“Andrew, I...”

Neil takes a drag and leans back against the cushion to watch as Andrew whispers into Kevin’s ear. It earns the blonde an answer delivered so desperate sounding it’s indecent, and Andrew’s false indifference crumbles. Finally delivering the mercy blow, Andrew pulls Kevin forward by the collar and kisses him so _rightly_ Neil can’t help but feel their impact in his bones. Whatever particles of thought Kevin was trying to piece together blow away, unimportant. One moment, Andrew’s gently brushing his lips against Kevin’s; the next, a cataclysm of endorphins flood his nerves as Andrew slides his tongue along Kevin’s upper lip, seeking permission, demanding entry.

_Like puzzle pieces,_ Neil thinks stupidly, arbitrary particles in the air struggling to reform.

Then Kevin’s hand is on Neil’s thigh and they’re all Neil can comprehend and they’re all Neil _wants_ to comprehend. He stubs the cigarette on the wooden end table next to the couch and leans forward once more, Kevin’s hand rising higher on Neil’s leg.

Kevin groans again into Andrew’s kiss when Neil’s hand slips under Kevin’s sweater, fingers rubbing circles into the skin and sinew he finds. As their lips move together like warring ironclads in the Baltic, Kevin thinks he understands why Wilde said each man kills the thing he loves. After all, there must be no greater honor than to be cut down by the ones you’ve barred your soul to.

_Overwhelm me if it’s the last thing you do._

Neil’s palms moving up against Kevin’s stomach, his chest, carving the edges of the earth itself; the mountains and hills of Andrew’s lips against Kevin’s own; that liquid fire of saliva, an ocean of salvation—a match and a tank of gasoline couldn’t set Kevin more alight; This is what the world has come to.

_Missing puzzle piece,_ Kevin thinks, particles reforming. And this time, maybe it’s not so stupid.

Witherspear is near bare at this hour. The third floor will close at midnight, leaving only the first floor open twenty-four-seven, seven days a week, and where most of the student volunteers are stationed. And while undoubtedly reckless, none of them are exhibitionists. They should be careful, they know this. After all, there’s protocol to be followed. Rules and regulations, something to be wary of, to be aware of. Eyes watching from the shadows, real or imaginary. Every day, every hour. Every second of existence the laws of their world hang above their head like the Sword of Damascus ready to slice. The puppet men wouldn’t like this spectacle. Their laws do not cover desire. _Nous sommes au-dessus de l’amour,_ as the prophets say. But this is worse, this is more than desire, this is, this is—

Destruction. Revolution. Purpose. A full cycle growing more catastrophic with each completion. Who would give law unto lovers? Not the puppet men. Love is unto itself a higher law.

Now, a hand in Neil’s hair, Andrew’s. Yes, yes, for fuck’s sake how else can I say yes until you shut me up with your lips, your tongue, your breath in my lungs? Stars behind Neil’s eyes, Kevin’s touch more electric than Dust. The shadowy veins licking into halted vision, but sight isn’t necessary at the moment. To see, to watch—what’s there to watch when he feels everything and more he thought he’d never have the chance of feeling? The bubble in his throat when Kevin turns from Andrew to kiss Neil again, but in his throat, his jaw this time, Adam’s apple bobbing like Eve had punched him into submission. Nicotine and neon in his mouth from Andrew’s searching tongue, the adrenaline in his blood, running, running, _running_ —he gasps for air and still can’t get enough.

These feelings he can’t put words to. But he doesn’t bother trying. Emotions are thoughts outside the realm of spoken language.

Anything else gets lost in translation.

II.

“I think we get along,” Kevin whispers sometime later, when the candles on the walls have dimmed and the fireplace no longer roars but smolders. Neil’s back is to Kevin’s side, Day’s arm thrown around his chest, Neil’s legs stretched out across the rest of the couch. Andrew’s on the other chesterfield facing their’s, right ankle resting across the opposite knee while he lights another cigarette. At this rate he’ll have lung cancer before thirty but Andrew brushes it off with the excuse he hasn’t actually _finished_ an entire stick in weeks. As if that helps.

“What’s with the bedtime stories?”

Andrew’s question draws attention to the books Neil had almost forgotten about, the two novels now wedged between the arm of the couch and seat cushion from where they’d been pushed aside earlier. Kevin raises his arm so Neil can lean forward to retrieve them. He drops the Chekhov onto the floor for later and turns to the strange poetry Katelyn had shown him.

“This one’s weird,” Neil murmurs. “I was looking for…well, doesn’t matter, but—“ he flips through the pages and nudges Kevin’s shoulder with his. “A student was re-shelving books, um…Katelyn. Aaron’s partner, actually. They showed me this one—“

“A Legacy,” Kevin cuts in at the same time Andrew curses under his breath.

“What?” Kevin crinkles his brows at the blonde.

“Aaron’s cheerleader bitch,” Andrew mutters as if that’s explanation enough. Neil remembers Kevin once saying something about how protective Andrew was of his brother. He wonders if that’s what has caused Andrew’s frustration now, or if there’s more.

Kevin starts to roll his eyes when Neil looks up at Day. “Does that make us Andrew’s illiterate bitches?” He deadpans.

Andrew coughs and Kevin makes another face. “Since when are we illiterate?”

“It’s what he calls us,” Neil says.

“No, it’s what he calls _you_ —“

“Idiots,” Andrew breathes and Neil snaps his finger. “Case in point.”

Kevin sighs and turns back to the book in Neil’s hand. “Let me see that.”

Neil concedes the Claire and watches Kevin’s face as the other man studies the first few pages. Other than the occasional sound of paper turning or a final chard of wood crackling in the fireplace, the room is devoid of sound. They stay like that for an indeterminable amount of time, comfortable in the afterglow. Andrew’s lips around his near gone stub, eyes on the pair like headlights; Neil’s fingers curled in Kevin’s shirt, thumb lazily rubbing circles into Day’s side as he glances between the book and Kevin’s lips trapped between his teeth; Kevin’s gaze trained on the pages before him, knee bouncing unconsciously when he touches his index to his tongue before turning to the next poem.

The first person to break the silence is Kevin, and Neil sees the look of recognition in Kevin’s eyes the moment before he speaks.

_“Je connais celui-ci.”_ He blinks, chest rising as if the air has become heavier than usual before looking up. “I didn’t—I wasn’t aware, I had no idea she…“ he trails off, lost in some other world.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, voice traveling low and as heavy as a shockwave. He’s Atlas, he’s the ark, and with one word he lifts Kevin from the depths again.

“Right, so.” Kevin closes his eyes and starts again. “My mom, she—when I was younger, she read me stories, poems, whatever she’d been studying for her lectures. Hell, whatever she could get her hands on, really, I’d beg her to share with me.” Kevin chuckles but it’s a sad sound, a sort of sound that should never accompany such a pure act. “She, um…She read me this one a lot—“ he taps the page once, twice “—but I had no idea where it was from. I just assumed…” he stops and then shrugs, tilting the page he’s on for Neil to see what he’s looking at. “ _Je chais pas_ what I thought, actually. I just really liked it, never asked how she knew it. I was a kid, you know?”

The question is anesthesia to Neil’s thoughts at Kevin’s words. It numbs him almost entirely. _We were all kids,_ Neil wants to say _. We’ve always been kids._

When did the world stop seeing us that way?

“Your mom attended Fox, right?” At Kevin’s nod of confirmation, Neil says, “She must’ve picked it up here.”

The title of the poem Kevin’s referring to is familiar: _La Tromperie du Coucou._ The Cuckoo’s Deceit. Neil had skimmed past it earlier when he’d opened the book.

“Read it,” Neil prods.

Kevin quirks a brow, glancing at Neil to see if he’s serious then across to Andrew as if the blonde will intervene. “You’re looking at it.”

_“Con_.” Neil nudges Kevin’s side, harder. “Out loud, damn it.”

Across from them, Andrew covers his face with his hand and stifles another cough.

“Uh, ‘kay.” Kevin inhales a breath, puffing his shoulders out a little like he’s preparing for some great feat. It’s endearing, and Neil can’t help but relax back into Kevin’s side.

_“La Tromperie du Coucou,_ ” Kevin starts, haltingly. Andrew’s gaze is pinned on the floorboards, but other than a slight sniff he doesn’t raise objection to the French as Kevin continues:

“Tell me where the cuckoo sings, but darling, ple—

Kevin breaks off and clears his throat, cheeks flushing. “Sorry. Um.” His eyes shoot towards the man sitting across the room but is only met with Andrew’s bored, unyielding watch.

“Read the poem, Kevin,” he says, and they all hear the quiet note of pleased patience in the tone that Andrew only reserves for a small handful of people. Andrew would self-crucify before daring to admit it, though.

Kevin nods once more and starts again, a certain word redacted from his recitation:

_Tell me where the cuckoo sings_

_but darling, don’t you lie._

_Does he live in the fox borough,_

_or the forests of your mind?_

_Shattering, scattering his lonesome call throughout the countryside?_

_Tell me where the cuckoo hides_

_my love, pray truth this time._

_Does she fly in the bloody breeze_

_or has she lost her guise?_

_While begging, beating a dusty rag to muffle her mournful cries?_

_The cuckoo sings for you and me;_

_The cuckoo sings for three._

_The cuckoo has never ever known peace;_

_The cuckoo sings for three._

_They sing for the wind and for the wronged,_

_they sing for those glorious, forgotten ones._

_So tell me, darling, tell me right,_

_where the cuckoo sings tonight._

III.

“You’re really going to put me to sleep at this rate,” Andrew mutters when Kevin finishes. Kevin doesn’t really seem to hear him. His attention lingers on the page in front of him as if nostalgia alone could resurrect his mother’s ghost.

Unbeknownst to the two, Andrew has a lot more on his mind than he’d care to show. He’s always been weak when it comes to Kevin, and with Neil now in the picture like a freight train barreling on the horizon line, Andrew has to take into account more than one variable.

Andrew supposes there are worse ways to die than being hit by a train.

Or surviving one.

He watches the pair from where he sits. A part of him—that untamed, unsatisfiable part—has half a mind to stand up and join them where they lay, Neil against Kevin, roots against leaves. To sit at their feet at the very least, his head against the cushions, closer, closer, _closer_ to their frost and heat.But the other side of him wins over, the one that knows self-control got him so far for a reason and won’t fail him now. Andrew needs his mind clear to think. To figure out how he’s supposed to survive not one train but two, heading straight for his captive heart tied down to the rusty tracks.

The Family has another thing coming if they think they’ll break up the life Andrew has fought tooth and nail and bone after broken bone for. He didn’t make it all this way to have it all ripped from his hands—to have Neil and Kevin and life, precious, haunted life itself ripped from their hands.

Ichirou will have to run Andrew over first—real, literal running over with a goddamn tank and army—if he so much as thinks he’s going to win this war.

Neil’s taken the book back from Kevin by now. They’re taking turns reading through the various poems (and that’s a generous term for the crap Andrew’s forced to hear), laughing at some of Claire’s peculiar ramblings hastily written in broken French that Andrew can’t fully understand. On other pages, the two become quieter, more serious. One specific poem elicits a similar response to the cuckoo one Kevin had read, but instead it’s Neil who becomes drawn back and contemplative while he reads it out loud. Andrew finds it much more interesting in that rather morbid way where taboo and tasteless constructs warp the mind in putrid fascination.

Neil reads:

_I crucified my priest on Sunday morn’_

_and begged god, la fraude,_

_for more wood._

_God tore my tongue_

_dipped’n my blood_

_to paint our pretty chard._

__

_I strung my priest up_

_high and dry,_

_a caricature of pride;_

_‘hind the altar_

_where we shed our love_

_anointed with our grime._

_I knelt before his mangled flesh,_

_I knelt a thousand times._

_I knelt and mouthed a hollow prayer_

_and god licked up the lie._

_The priest, I nailed to cinder oak,_

_I watched his flesh turn ripe._

_I smelled the smolder’d, mildew’d skin,_

_I kissed his rotting side._

_I crucified the man I loved,_

_I loved the way he died._

When he’s done, Neil murmurs something to Kevin, who pulls out his phone and hands it over. Half a minute later, Neil’s pulled up some website article about the poem, _La Fraude, La Fraude._

“Arguably one of Claire’s most provocative and controversial works,” Neil reads, “and penned only ten days before his death, the poem sheds light on Claire’s struggle with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a condition of which he suffered most of his life due to the traumatic events he underwent in his university and adult years. Along with four other classmates, Claire conspired to and followed through with the murder of one of his own classmates at the notoriously acclaimed Foxborough Academy in 1873. Shortly after, the five killers, aptly known as the Fallen Five, agreed on a suicide pact together. Claire was the only member of the Five who did not go through with the act and, after a lengthy and intrusive indictment process in his home state of South Carolina, was declared by the court mentally insane. Miraculously, he finished his schooling with the aid of several mentors, including the renowned Father Christian Abrams, who led Claire’s spiritual counseling throughout the writer’s later years.”

Neil breaks off then, rolling his eyes and nudging Kevin with his elbow. “He shacked up with the priest.”

Kevin guffaws. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, but, like…it was true.” Neil gestures to the book. “Not just some metaphorical shit.”

“At least he didn’t kill ‘im.”

“No, he did.”

“ _What_?”

Neil snickers and continues reading. “Tragedy did not forget Claire for long, though. Twelve years after being acquitted, authorities discovered the brutally burned and flayed body of Father Abrams in Claire’s Columbia family manor. Claire, in fact, reported the crime and asked to be taken into custody. While many called for his execution, the courts ultimately decided to send Claire away to spend the rest of his days in The Edgar Allan Relief Society, nicknamed The Nest, an insane asylum for Carolina’s wealthiest.”

“As many writers tend, Claire took some creative liberties when writing _La Fraude, La Fraude._ Whether from a withering memory (it was believed that Claire also suffered from Alzheimer’s before his death, though such is speculation) or to serve as one last symbol of defiance, it is quite interesting to note that Claire murdered Abrams on a Tuesday evening after all, rather than the “Sunday morn’” he wrote.”

“At any rate, whether Claire aimed his last work to be a haunting confession, or a testament to his fading mental state, there is no doubt what message Claire wanted to impart. Perhaps a line from his _Singing Amongst Barren Fields_ sums up the aphorism he attributed his life’s shortcomings to:

“No matter how great the spark that electrocutes infantile wonder… how insignificant each module of sand and pouring within the cracks of every individual may be, we all fall back into the barren fields at close of day. Dust and shadows we are, from dust and shadows we came. You are no more greater dust than I [sic].”

“Claire’s family manor is currently closed for renovation. Tours will resume in the fall of this year. For more information, visit w-w-w-dot-jean-mort-claire-the-legacy-lives-on-dot-com…“

Neil shuts off the phone with a thoughtful sigh. The absence of the artificial screen’s light quickly brings attention to how dark the room has become without the glow of the fire, completely dead and still behind the grate.

“I don’t want to be dust,” Kevin murmurs.

_Everyone is like everyone, here._

Neil thinks of his mother’s bones, no longer a person but a deceased object burning on California dunes. No longer a she—its remains floated like tears in the wind, ashes scattered amongst the sand and grass, indistinguishable.

Andrew, for his part, remembers how easy it is to burn under the hands of his mother’s “care”. He agrees with Kevin.

But he also thinks he’d rather be dust than the fire that burns it all away.

In the end, Andrew does stand up. He flicks the now-dead stub of his cigarette into the cold fireplace and stalks over to the other couch. Kevin looks up at him while Neil continues facing out from where he’s against Kevin’s side, lost in thoughts ravaged by gasoline and gunshots and never-spoken goodbyes.

“You won’t be,” Andrew says to Kevin, but he means it for both. _Not if I have any say in it._ He grips Kevin’s jaw with one hand and leans down to scrape the other through Neil’s hair. The latter shudders minutely at the touch and Andrew could drag them, kicking and screaming, as far away as possible to the ends of the earth if it meant they’d be safe, if he could. He’d keep them immortal if the universe would let him get away with it. There’s enough good men in the world, he’s not so blind not to acknowledge it. So what? Let there be good men, let there be selfless, praiseworthy heroes other men can put on a pedestal to scream sorrows and ‘gone too soon, taken too soon’ just to turn around and _send more men_ into the battlefield.

The universe doesn’t _need_ Andrew and Kevin and Neil to be good men. The universe doesn’t need more dust to cover the trenches, to burden the graves. Let the world have its broken, bloodied heroes to rest in the dirt and on the faces of propaganda posters so that others may haggardly seek the same fate. The world has killed enough of its darlings and a million more over for the sake of the ‘good’. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

So let, god _damn_ _it_ —just let Andrew’s darlings be okay.

IV.

Neil feels his hand shatter before the glass does.

He made it back to his apartment with just minutes to spare before his call with the Lord. He’d wanted, more than anything, to ask Andrew and Kevin to stay over. Not for any reason other than the fact itself of being close together, to be able to look ten feet over and see the two people you’ve somehow come to care more about than your own breathing are still safe and whole. He has an extra bedroom and everything they could use, but tonight’s out of the question.

Neil is thankful even more that he hadn’t called them like he’d considered doing before in hopes they could arrive just after he’d hung up. Because now everything is going to crash and burn, and Neil doesn’t know how to stop it.

Ichirou hadn’t hung up more than five seconds ago and already Neil’s coming undone by the seams. It’s past midnight, time zones are a fucking killer, and Neil doesn’t know if he’s crying more from the pain or the fatigue or the stone in his chest that feels like Alexandria on fire.

Ichirou’s coming to Columbia.

Neil’s vision starts to swim and it's only a moment just in time that he realizes he’s not breathing. Sometime in his panic he’d fallen to the bathroom floor next to shards of glass and stray drops of blood. His hand is screaming but his mind becomes eerily quiet as Ichirou’s words replay over and over and over…

_“Mr. Boyd and our other associates report positively of your progress, Nathaniel._

_The Family is more than pleased with your methods of gaining Day’s and Minyard’s trust._

_My brother and I will be flying in at the end of the week to personally welcome our Kevin home. It’s where he has always belonged._

_Why do you sound surprised, Nathaniel? I know we initially agreed upon May, but you’ve well exceeded expectations. It should be no trouble to convince Day to accompany you to Columbia where we will meet._

_You may bring Minyard along, but I cannot promise any further use of his abilities. It may be time to retire our little OCRA agent._

_I know you have been stressed about this mission, Nathaniel, but know that The Family recognizes your hard work. You can expect a significant promotion upon your return._

_It seems you are speechless. No matter there; I understand relief can be overwhelming. You shall thank us later._

_I will be in touch.”_

It’s all Neil’s worst fears come true. Time running out faster than Neil’s feet can carry him, Ichirou perverting the relationship Neil has with his sunlit satellites. It’s worse than his fears because it’s _real_ , it's tangible.

It's unstoppable.

Neil’s tears are acid rain against his cheeks and he wonders why he couldn’t have instead died on that California beach.

At least then he would have had another person to lay his ashes to rest with.

V.

Miles away in an old, dusty Columbia manor closed to the general public await two forces of nature ready to wreak havoc. But they’re done waiting. The plan is set, the car is packed, the knives are strapped. Anger and impatience brim at the surface; pride, the mother of all evils, its stoker.

“The little blonde bitch burned me, brother,” the woman calls to her companion from the second floor. “And that _ublyudok_ , our false god…” her snarl rings across the arched ceiling of the foyer, “had the gall to laugh.”

“I’m done with tradition,” she continues, descending the front staircase littered with old paint cans and construction equipment. “I’m done with our roots. It’s time to plant a new seed. It’s time to begin our new legacy.”  
  
Oremor watches her dusty footprints in the white sheets laid down for renovation. It reminds him of another time back in cold, barren Russia where the bodies of their parents decayed and her blood lingered like perfume around her collarbone.

He wonders of all the blood he’ll get to paint around his own neck in due time. Soon, so soon. He’ll cut and trim and perfect his prey. No longer trees and bark, but flesh and sinew his canvas.

“Nathaniel laughed when his little friend thought he could mark my skin.” Now Lola-Alol, for they’ve become the same person, chuckles as she pauses a step above the landing. Her nails twist around the banister, bare and unpainted, ready to be stained.

“He laughs now. Well, brother. The King won’t be laughing when we tear his Queen down.”

Next to the foyer hangs on old clock, passed down through the generations amongst the family that owns this manor. The hour hand strikes three, and the automated figurine pops out from its wooden enclosure.

_Cuck-oo._

_Cuck-oo._

_Cuck-oo._

The little bird sings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> other info: Starting now, the chapters will become slightly more graphic/violent. Nothing too outrageous and not all at once, but just a heads up. Some sections may be slightly more gruesome than canon. When that time arises, an asterisk will be used to signify when the violent imagery is starting and you are more than welcome to dm me on Tumblr if you’d like me to just summarize the important info of the violent part so u dont have to read it. feedback and comments are fucking crack and I so appreciate if you leave some as well!!
> 
> Chapter title from The Neighborhood's song, Devil's Advocate
> 
> References to:  
> The Consolations of Philosophy by Boethius
> 
> ‘Nous sommes au-dessus de l’amour' means ‘we are above love’  
> ‘Je connais celui-ci’ means ‘I know this one’  
> ‘Je chais pas’ French slang for ‘idk’


	23. If This is To End in Fire, Then We Should All Burn Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If there's any guy crazy enough to attack me, I'm going to show him the end of the world -- close up. I'm going to let him see the kingdom come with his own eyes. I'm going to send him straight to the southern hemisphere and let the ashes of death rain all over him and the kangaroos and the wallabies.”  
> ~Haruki Murakami
> 
> “When St. Peter loses cool and bars the gates  
> When Atlas acts a man and makes his arms shake  
> When the birds are heard again and their singing  
> And once atrocity is hoarse from voice and shame  
> And when the earth is trembling on some new beginnin'  
> With the same sweet shock of when Adam first came  
> Be as you’ve always been.”  
> ~Hozier, Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: flashbacks of trauma in one’s childhood, involving very detailed descriptions of burn injuries and a mother’s abuse toward her children, background into the religious cult the minyards and nicky were subjected to in their youth; non-explicit reference to forced amputation; Brief mentions of suicide and incestual relations within the context of the greek play Antigone; violence/injury to the head.
> 
> side note: Its not. Its not even funny how much music has been inspiring this fic. folklore/evermore especially, with hozier a spectacular runner up. If you pick up on the references, I am both sorry and impressed. Also, @dayurno said the lakes is a perfect titwtwe song and my vision’s been black since. Its so. So accurate. For the love of fuck please listen to it. thank u monarch also go read their flaptastic fic. Also, the song willow?? “Wait for the signal, and I'll meet you after dark/Show me the places where the others gave you scars...life was a willow and it bent right to your wind” HELLO?? I could fucking MELT in these lyrics bro. This is the way the world ends more like this is the way im losing my fucking mind over sung poetry. 
> 
> Im sorry im done but like. Oh my god. Im so fucking gay. Ty and enjoy <3

I.

As it has long been said, children must be deceived if they’re to grow up without trauma.

But what’s a child to do when deception becomes the very trauma they were supposed to be shielded from?

That’s the question eleven-year old Andrew Minyard wondered as he stared at the mottled flesh of his brother’s backside. What was left of it, that is. Rising up Aaron’s shoulder blades to the nape of the neck like celestial wings seared off, the wounds ranged in color and texture. Baby pink around the edges, where unmarked skin bled into singed away. Bright red like maraschino syrup on the areas most damaged by the blocks of coal. Darker still, mahogany mounds of destroyed boy where the coal’s dust mixed with fair flesh.

In young Andrew’s opinion, Tilda Minyard did her sons a favor. She never deceived them. She never pretended to be anything but herself. Without her cruel care, the twins would never have known the extent of human suffering. Or, of human survival. The two go hand in hand like wounds and whiskey.

Life and other near-death experiences thrive on dishonesty, fertile untruths. But Tilda offered her sons verity in a world breaming with delusion. She would have been hurting them—even more than when she tied her sons to a table or to a bed or to Pastor Luther’s wooden rack to force the heated coals on their already ruined skin—if she didn’t teach them the truth.

“What do you say?” Tilda asked Aaron in the same calm, detached voice she always saved for these lessons. _Lektion eins,_ she’d announce, and Andrew and Aaron knew better than to respond any differently than how she’d expect.

But Aaron didn’t—couldn’t—respond appropriately. Not this time. With the third coal burning another hole into his shoulder, the smell of slowly smoldering skin mixed with blood somehow worse than the rancid sight, the only thought in Aaron’s mind was that of desperation.

“ _Please_.”

To call it begging would be too generous. He barely had enough strength left to raise his voice above a croaked whisper. He tried, but the sound fell flat, nonexistent, like bone without marrow, stretched too thin from earlier hours of ceaseless screaming. “Please l-let…please let me go.”

Andrew’s fists clenched from where they remained tied behind his back. He forced himself to keep watching the inferno play out in front of him. No use avoiding what would soon come to him. No use avoiding the Truth.

“ _Falsch_ ,” Tilda murmured. She didn’t sound angry, but the disappointment dripped from her tongue like spoiled milk. “You know better, Aaron. Let’s try this again.” She twisted her gloved hand around the first block of coal she’d laid on his back, digging the weakened char into his still-bleeding backside. _“What do you say?”_

There wasn’t even a scream from Aaron. But his mouth dropped open in unspeakable agony, a silent wail trapped in pain-shocked lungs. Tears continued to fall down his face which Tilda simply ignored. Andrew watched on as if he saw his own reflection in his brother’s tears.

Then the retching began. Remnants of bile joined what had already been vomited up on the floor under where Aaron lay, tied face-down on the wooden rack. Nothing could possibly have been left in his system after the morning’s lessons he’d had, but his body didn’t care, trying in vain to regurgitate a physical manifestation to parallel the pain received.

“Thank you,” Aaron whispered, broken between heaves. “Thank you for the lesson.”

Andrew, mouth stuffed with the rag Tilda never bothered to clean, swung his head back against the table leg he was restrained to, hard enough to creak the wood. Tilda ignored him too.

“And who,” said Tilda, always calm except when she wasn’t, “do you thank?”

A breath. A shudder. A heave. _“Danke Gottkult.”_

“Thank Goodness,” Tilda agreed with an empty smile. The scarred, blistered skin of her own hands and arms and even face shone like poisoned beacons where she, years ago, received the same treatment from her mother. Gottkult was a modern offshoot of the Albigensians, determined to burn away the stain of their corrupted humanity one inch of flesh at a time. To burn ones nature, ones very fallen soul, until nothing but peace and ash remained. “Thank our _Gottkult_ for the lessons he grants us.”

Trauma or Deception. You can have one but not the other when you’re a child. Thank Gottkult indeed for every lie and every fiction it fed its children like heavenly manna.

Thank Gottkult for its Truth.

It was Andrew’s last thought, present like a cancerous plague in his mind, when he hit the back of his head one last time just right on the table’s wood. Something inside Andrew cracked then, perhaps bone or the last of his hope.

Darkness and fire enveloped the boy once more.

•

Blackness, but not quite. The shadowy minefield behind one’s eyelids. A shallow breath filtering in the room, but not his own. The remnants of smoke in his nostrils, nicotine on his collar.

Andrew opens his eyes, heart pounding, body frozen. So fucking human still, despite how the years should have left him.

For a fragile moment, the breathing on the opposite side of the room stops. Trembles. Andrew doesn’t pray, but he thinly wills that his brother hasn’t woken. Aaron needs his sleep, and Andrew needs his peace.

Then:

“Du bist wach.”

Fuck. Andrew closes his eyes again, basking uncomfortably in the shadows. The dream lingers in his mind like grains of sand. Inescapable but just out of reach, on the edges of actual memory. It doesn’t matter, though. He only ever dreams of memories, and he can’t really forget those.

“Go to sleep.”

Aaron huffs, and Andrew can hear the eye roll even in the tired scoff. “You woke me first, _Saukerl_.”

Andrew stiffens where he lay on the twin mattress. He doesn’t ask what a person normally would: _How?_ Or mumble a standard, _Sorry_. He long grew out of screaming himself awake, but he doesn’t have to imagine how receptive Aaron is of his brother’s nightmare habits. Andrew is just as attuned to Aaron’s, after all.

Aaron says quietly from where he lay, “You’re dreaming of her again, aren’t you?”

_Dreams are parasitic, incessant creatures_ , Andrew’s Cognitive Psych professor once lectured. _Tangible existence non-existent, yet unable to be stopped. Not unique to human life, nor understandable by such._

Yet—

_“Hold fast to dreams,_ ” Kevin had once murmured in Andrew’s ear. They’d been entangled within each other one lazy October day. A good day, as Kevin would have called it. A possible day, in Andrew’s words. Possible to live and exist in without exterior worries. Even if only for such a temporary time. _“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.”_

Andrew had kissed the self-satisfied smirk off Kevin’s features in return. “Cheesy bastard.”

Kevin and Andrew were more than aware of what dreams really were. Dreams plagued both, but Kevin was a romantic at heart, able to see past the truth and into the dark. Dreams could wound. Dreams could heal. Both these things can be true.

“Hughes, actually, ” Kevin corrected, teeth flashing. “It’s for my monologue piece tomorrow.”

“How immature.”

Kevin leaned forward to nip at Andrew’s jaw, the juncture between neck and bone offered to him like a blossomed rose.Andrew let the matter slide while Kevin gave due devotion to Andrew’s skin, his lips, the corner of Andrew’s mouth where it turned down in pretense passivity. Until Kevin’s breath came shorter, hotter than the fires burning in Andrew’s memory and Andrew couldn’t resist licking into the flames of Kevin’s mouth. 

“Stop looking at me like that.”

There it was again. That smirk. Kevin closed his eyes and laid back against the settee’s navy upholstery they’d claimed in the Common Room for the afternoon, Andrew’s arms doing more to cushion Day than the couch could ever hope to. “Your wish is my command, oh captain, my captain.”

Andrew scoffed. “How immature,” he said again, heart and lungs restless at the following laugh Kevin granted in response.

_“Hold fast to dreams…”_ Kevin whispered in Andrew’s ear.

Watching Kevin Day in the quiet light of the room, dark lashes fanned against his blemished, beautiful skin, a deep set dimple in his left cheek as he talked, a shallower one on his right, Andrew couldn’t suppress the waves roiling within his chest, dripping into his gut and spreading like wildfire within his bloodstream.

_You are my dream, Kevin Day,_ Andrew thought, as hopeless as a prayer, and traitorous to even consider to speak aloud. _I will not forget you so easily._

Kevin finished, _“…for when dreams go...”_ he met Andrew’s lips with a light in his eyes that no shadow of Andrew’s had a right to touch. Andrew curled his hands around Kevin’s jaw, his neck, regardless. No matter their odds, he wouldn’t let go. He promised Kevin that much, and Andrew didn’t break his promises.

_“…Life is a barren field frozen with snow.”_

—Yet the inescapable memories threaten to drown Andrew along with the dreams. He burned a lifetime over in his childhood. Now, Andrew’s more like the cinder remains left over from a fire than a phoenix risen from the ashes. Whatever wings he may have had couldn’t possibly grow back after the inferno.

But what scares him more than anything is knowing, without a doubt, he’d burn all over again to hold fast the two men who’ve taken his soul captive.

He’d burn the goddamn oceans.

Because the dream is no longer just Kevin. It's Kevin and Neil, it’s song and bird, it’s fire and storm ripping open Andrew’s ribcage and nestling home where they both belong. It’s all coming together like the ruins of Pompeii scavenged from the earth: always there, always present, only just discovered so recent ago.

Andrew releases a breath he never meant to hold.

The rise and fall of Aaron’s chest mimics that of being asleep, but by this point, Andrew knows his brother well enough not to be surprised when the question comes.

“What was it this time?”

Andrew watches the tendrils of shadow escape from his eyelids and jump to the ceiling. Dark, swirling non-matter dances on plaster, unshakeable forms beckoning Andrew….beckoning Andrew what? He sighs and rubs an arm against his face.

“Did she have her dogs with her?” Aaron continues, hollow amusement in his tone not lost to Andrew. It’sthe type of amusement that’s never funny but rather aches in a careless way, as only those who’ve ached their whole lives can replicate. “Or her ropes?”

When Andrew doesn’t respond, Aaron says, “I was there, wasn’t I? You never look like that about yourself.”

Sometimes trying to talk to Andrew is like scraping at a brick wall. Some days Aaron throws rocks at Andrew’s wall like an inopportune nuisance. But under the flippant facade, Aaron’s long known how to whisper into the cracks in his brother’s stone until Andrew reveals the furnace underneath.

Aaron’s words sinking into understanding, Andrew blinks and turns his head to look at his brother. Sure enough, Aaron is staring back, tired eyes stubborn and resolute. He always did express so much more emotion. Enough for the both of them.

“Go to sleep,” Andrew repeats matter-of-factly.

Aaron isn’t deterred, but nor does he seem to care all that much either when he says, half-sarcastic, “Should I call for your boyfriends?” he laughs quietly to himself, sharper than not. “They can read you a bedtime story. Would that help you sleep?”

Andrew considers throwing his pillow at Aaron. But that would then require getting up to retrieve the pillow, and more than likely getting hit in return. He’s not in the mood for that.

“I’ll suffocate you,” Andrew promises. Aaron snorts.

“You always say that. I’m waiting for the day you stop being a pussy and get on with it.”

Andrew doesn’t throw the pillow. But it’s close.

Hours after Aaron’s gone back to sleep, Andrew lays awake in bed, watching snow fall outside the window. He’s never been the superstitious sort, but he’s never ignored gut instinct. And right now, every molecule of blood and bone within him is telling Andrew to open his eyes, to wake the fuck up, to get out of bed and hold on to something he doesn’t even know is fading away. No matter how hard he tries to reconcile it with his addled mind, he can’t help but think how the white-gray flakes have never resembled ash more than it does tonight, this morning, whichever it is. Ashes, ashes, falling like smoldering stars onto the barren earth below. Ashes in the air, ashes in his mind. Ashes in the memories that haunt him at night.

When sunrise comes an eternity later, golden-pink fire blazing across the sky warning of dawn, the ashes reflect the sky like crimson tears.

Blood in the breeze.

II.

But before sunrise comes and before the ashes scream agony, another fading dream is starting his day. Kevin walks back and forth between his bed and desk in the small dorm, hurrying to pack his bag while scrambling to find his script for _Antigone_. He has an early rehearsal today. It’s Hell Week which, to be fair, is a big deal for his theatre production, but is one of the least of Kevin’s priorities with the recent turn of events in his life. And like the very prioritized man he is, he didn’t get back to his dorm and then bed until after midnight in favor of staying up with Neil and Andrew. And now it’s not even four thirty, and Kevin thinks he just might sleepwalk to the auditorium if it weren’t for the coffee he knows he’ll be chugging along the way.

“Get some sleep, man,” Kevin murmurs to Nicky when the older man’s head falls from the palm he’s used to prop himself up on while taking notes. Nicky startles at his desk and blinks groggily before waving Kevin off with a tired smirk.

“I will, I will.” Nicky stifles a yawn and reaches for the pen he dropped that’s scattered across the desktop. “Just need to finish drawing up Robin’s study schedule. Don’t worry about me, _Engelchen_. Have fun with your lesbians.”

Even after pulling an all nighter, Nicky’s able to make jokes. It never fails to amaze Kevin. “ _The_ spian, Nicky. For the thousandth time.”

“Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.” Nicky yawns again and points his pen at Kevin’s bag. “Do I get a discount for the show?”

Kevin raises an unimpressed brow and Nicky clarifies, “Because I’m so cute and you love me so much.”

Kevin shakes his head as Nicky chuckles, the latter turning back to his notes and scribbling something in the margins. “Really, Nicky. You’re crashing. Sleep for a couple hours. You’ll never get work done this way.”

“Nor will I if I’m asleep,” Nicky returns. His tone, though light, frays around the edges at Kevin’s insistence. He raises a brow when Kevin rolls his eyes, the latter stepping forward to gently slide off the red reading frames around Nicky’s face. Kevin folds the glasses and sets them on Nicky’s dresser, just out of Nicky’s reach. “Uh, I need those, hon.”

“Nicky—“

“Kevin.” Nicky bats his eyelashes over-dramatically at Kevin’s frown, but Kevin only sees the dark rings of fatigue now much more visible since unobscured without the glasses. Something like guilt washes over Kevin when he realizes Nicky’s been pushing himself like this for awhile, and Kevin’s barely noticed until now. Or done anything about it.

“Sleep.”

“And you say I’m a mother-hen,” Nicky drawls.

“Fuck you. I just don’t want to deal with Erik when you inevitably collapse from heart failure.”

Nicky points his pen in Kevin’s direction. “And now you’re sounding like Andrew. I’m not digging it.”

“Not my problem.” Kevin closes the notebook Nicky currently has open and flicks Nicky’s forehead when Hemmick huffs and tries to relocate his page. “Oh, for god’s sake—“

“You’re gonna be late,” Nicky tsks at Kevin. But Kevin’s adamant and won’t move until Nicky surrenders.

“Fine.” He sighs, loud and pained, realizing Kevin’s not giving this up. “I’ll sleep. Just an hour, though. A power nap. Will that make you happy, mother?” he teases.

Kevin nods and gestures like _duh_. He turns back to zip up his bag, foregoing the book of poems he’s tempted to bring to read during his breaks at the last second. Neil lent Kevin Mort Claire’s legacy last night, but Kevin knows he’ll just be distracted thinking about the words Kayleigh used to read to him if he does bring it along.

“Oh, what would I do without you, Kevin?” Nicky murmurs in German when Kevin throws the book on his nightstand for later. Kevin only picks up on the words because it’s something Andrew’s said before, multiple times, but always in a much more sarcastic way rather than the soft, genuine manner Nicky whispers.

Kevin doesn’t respond but watches with a pointed look while Nicky caps his pen and pushes out of his desk to lay down. “I’m serious, dude. Don’t kill yourself over those kids. It’s not fucking worth it.”

Nicky scoffs and flips onto the small twin. He doesn’t seem to mind the sweater and pants he still has on from the night before when he pulls his duvet to his chin. “They’re not kids, _dude_.” He’s quiet for another moment before adding, a decibel quieter, “But really. Thanks, Kev.”

Kevin slings his bag over his shoulder and, making sure he has his keys, walks over to the door. “For what?”

Nicky hums. Instead of answering, he says, almost too soft that Kevin thinks he’s misheard, “You’re good for them, you know.”

Kevin’s hand stills on the door handle. His head juts to the side. _Them_? Nicky must mean the students Kevin tutors, even if it's really just become Neil in the past weeks. Because Kevin never told Nicky—

“Go, Kev,” Nicky says louder, retrieving a hand from under the covers to wave at the door. “You’ll be late.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Kevin mutters.

He locks the door on his way out and hopes Nicky’s still asleep by the time Kevin gets back later that afternoon. Nicky’s too good for Fox, in Kevin’s opinion. The students Nicky tutors don’t truly understand how lucky they are. Nicky would practically crucify himself to make sure they're keeping their grades up and not falling too far into the black hole Fox investments tend to stray.

“Savior complex,” Andrew once said of Nicky. Not unkindly per say, but laced with frustration. Kevin thinks Andrew may have been right on the mark.

Kevin manages to grab his coffee from Roosts, the one cafe that’s open nearly twenty-four-seven, before arriving at the auditorium just in time before he’s due. They’re doing costume fittings first, then rehearsing act two. The only downside of being an upperclassman is that the underclassmen get to rehearse later in the day and into the evening (i.e., they can sleep in). Kevin much more prefers starting at five in the evening and working until midnight than starting at such time in the morning and going until noon. But beggars can’t be choosers, so Kevin pushes on and swings the entrance door open.

And sees Andrew sitting in the last row of the auditorium, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers and watching the cast and crew members that have arrived flitter back and forth, already in a hurry.

Kevin half waves, half gestures for a moment of reprieve to Abby, who’s standing near the stage with a clipboard of to-do list items in her hand. She nods and turns back to Allison and another member of the costume department while Kevin makes his way toward the bored looking blonde.

“Hey,” he greets, though confused to see Andrew (a.) up so early and (b.) up so early in the auditorium. If possible, which it very well is, Andrew looks like he’s got even less sleep than Kevin. He’s sober, though. Kevin will take the small victories he can get.“What’re you doing here?”

A memory from the night before filters into Kevin’s mind. Andrew rolling a lit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, eyes no longer bored but predatory where he sat watching Kevin and Neil. To Kevin, resting against Neil and basking in the glow of the firelight and Andrew’s gaze, Andrew was more dangerous than a god. Mixcoatl and his harpoon, Artemis and her arrow had nothing over the power in Andrew’s words, Andrew’s regard. Kevin would gladly be the sacrifice on the altar for either man, if Andrew or Neil don’t get there first.

“My brother talks in his sleep.” Andrew’s flat response as he stands and slips the unused cigarette into his pocket pulls Kevin from his musings. The former’s gaze doesn’t move from where he’s watching a pair of seniors argue over robe sizes.

Kevin huffs a laugh and silently hands his coffee to Andrew. The blonde accepts it without a word, takes a sip, and removes the cup's lid before spitting back the contents, all with a straight face.

“Andrew, fucking…” Kevin groans. “I was _drinking_ that.”

On second thought, Kevin would still die for Andrew, but not before Kevin got a few kicks and shoves of his own in toward the shorter man beforehand.

Andrew hands the cup back over, lid back on. “I did you a favor.”

“Actually, you did the exact opposite of—“

Andrew sniffs. “You do realize that is rat poison you are ingesting.”

“It’s a three shot espresso,” Kevin corrects.

“No need to repeat me, dear.”

Kevin frowns at his corrupted drink. He paid five fifty for the shit.“I hate you.”

“Cry me a river.”

“I always did love your upbeat morning attitude,” he snarks.

“I thought you hated me.”

“I’m a paradox,” Kevin says dryly but smirks when Andrew shuts up any other potential retorts with a kiss. Kevin notes with caffeine-fueled humor that Andrew’s lips on his is chaste, not a slip of tongue that would possibly force Andrew to bear another second of the coffee’s taste.

“Are you meeting Neil later?” Kevin asks when he straightens. A quick glance at his watch tells him he technically doesn’t have to get over to Abby for another five minutes. She still seems busy with whatever Allison and the other student are discussing, so Kevin doesn’t feel too bad about stealing as much impromptu time with Andrew. They might’ve just seen each other a few hours ago, but that doesn’t matter. Kevin’s human. He’ll always want more.

Andrew’s expression remains blank. “For what.”

Kevin shrugs. “‘Dunno. Any reason. Talk, hang out, shoot the shit...” he trails off and sucks up the nerve to down a swallow of the contaminated espresso. Bacteria be damned. If Kevin can have Andrew’s fingers, Andrew himself, down his throat, Kevin can handle some fucking backwash. For the sake of staying awake, of course.

Andrew scratches his jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and the rare stubble gracing his features has Kevin frustratingly tempted to lean forward again and feel that scruff for himself. It looks exactly like Andrew’s just rolled out of bed and made his way over. He’s in a pair of Scervino’s, and the black knitted sweater that Nicky gifted Andrew one Christmas is covered with a slate overcoat to stave off the morning chill. Andrew’s hair isn’t even brushed, sticking up in odd places and smoothed down erratically in others.

It’s endearing as all fuck, though Kevin’s a smart enough man to never say so aloud. His mind wanders towards thoughts of how Neil had ran his hands through Andrew’s hair when they kissed in Neil’s apartment, how Neil had bit and licked at Andrew’s stubble that early morning. Only a couple days ago, but already it feels like forever. Kevin thinks that even if he managed to conquer eternity, it still wouldn’t be enough time with the two men who’ve so cataclysmically filled his life.

Fuck. He definitely needs more sleep and less caffeine, that’s for sure. So with that thought, he gulps more coffee like a champ, and almost misses when Andrew says, “Going to finish that sentence, Kevin?”

Kevin shrugs again. Caught. “You know. Whatever.”

“Whatever,” Andrew echoes.

Kevin grins, wicked. “No need to repeat me, dear.”

And thank fuck for both of them because Allison decides to call for Kevin’s presence near the stage. Which just so happens to be the same moment Andrew’s weighing the pros and cons of committing public indecency by taking Kevin over the back of one of the auditorium chairs right then and there.

“Day!” Allison gestures with one hand while balancing some fabric on the other.Two different suits are draped over her left arm, and Kevin can see from where he’s standing how… _neon_ the fabric is. How that’s possibly necessary for a modernized adaptation of _Antigone_ , he’ll never know, and probably will never find out. Go figure.

“That better not be mine,” he mutters and Andrew huffs.

“Break a leg, darling.”

“I’m offended that just left your mouth,” Kevin returns, lips quirking when Andrew flips him off. “But seriously. If Neil’s free, you guys should hang out.” He clicks his tongue suggestively. The one to one ratio of espresso shots to hours of sleep is really not doing much for his current shamelessness, but Kevin’s too relaxed to overthink it. He holds up a hand to Allison’s follow up call for him to hurry his ass up before she gives him a reason to hurry.

Andrew’s lips pinch together at Kevin’s wink. “You are so immature.”

Kevin hides another grin in the lid of his cup. “And you love it.”

“Narcissism is not a good luck on you.”

Kevin touches the tips of his fingers to Andrew’s left ear. They’re tinged red, and it’s not from the cold. They both know it. “I’m done at noon,” Kevin murmurs. “Call him.” He leans closer for Andrew to hear the softer tone, before he turns and walks off down the aisle toward the stage where Allison and Abby are waiting. Robin’s disappeared somewhere else with the glow stick suits.

Andrew doesn’t respond to Kevin’s last comment, but Kevin knows the blonde heard him. Kevin was mostly just teasing about Neil. After all, none of them have actually talked about _arrangements_ , for lack of better words. Kevin had known some people in polyamorous relationships before, and how they went about it differed from individuals to individuals. Some were strictly intimate only when all parties were involved, while others were more lax and less bounded by such. Neither way was better or worse than the other as long as everyone involved was happy and communicated their preferences. Which, Kevin understood, was something he knew Neil and Andrew and he needed to talk about before they took things any further.

Which brings up the other thing. A week ago, Kevin hadn’t been sure if Neil would’ve even been interested in something romantic amongst the three of them, much less anything like sex. But Kevin isn’t oblivious. In just the past couple days alone, he saw, felt, _knew_ , how he and Andrew affected Neil, and not just emotionally. But just because Neil made himself breathless with each kiss, or grew harder with every second that passed when they tangled themselves together, doesn’t necessarily mean Neil’s ready for more. Hell, it doesn’t necessarily mean Neil wants more. Bodily reactions are bodily reactions. Conscious, voluntary decisions and mental desires are a whole other ballpark. And if Neil never wants to visit that ballpark, Kevin and Andrew will more than respect that. They don’t need to have a spoken conversation to know what the three of them have goes much deeper, much truer than mere physical touch.

They’re like tree roots, all gnarled and twisted on the outside, but fibrous and solid within. Critical to keeping each of the other parts of their system thriving and strong.

Kevin thinks, _So much green._

He forgets that trees must wither.

III.

As Kevin makes his way toward the front of the auditorium, Andrew takes a seat again and watches him leave with faux-nonchalance. It’s an affectation he’s become pro at. Even yesterday it was of use when his plan to talk directly to the boss fell through. Remembering how that went is just one of many reasons Andrew had trouble sleeping last night.

“You’re here,” Andrew had stated in bland German as he sat in the waiting room outside the Dean’s office. Technically, the actual Dean was out of state for a conference, and the second the wounded janitor realized that was worth the entire debacle in itself. Now she was yelling at the Interim and demanding to press charges, leaving Andrew to count cracks in the floor and avoid his partner’s knowing expression.

“Of course I am,” Renee responded in Cantonese. It’s a game they played: Andrew wasn’t as comfortable speaking the Guangzhou dialect, and she not so comfortable with the Central European. She took a seat in the chair next to Andrew and sighed. “I can’t leave you alone for a day without you racking up at least one felony.” She switched to English on the last word so there was no confusion what she meant.

But Andrew wasn’t impressed. “You may want to rethink your definition of felony.”

Renee shook her head but didn’t take the bait. She was long used to Andrew’s antics. “So why did you do it?” She asked after listening to janitor’s yells filtering in through the door.

“Needed to talk to the boss.”

Renee tilted her head. The dyed ends of her hair bobbed with the motion, stray sunlight through the window highlighting the crevice of her facial scar. When Renee had once told him years ago how she got the mark, Andrew had almost, genuinely laughed. “There is a thing called ‘making an appointment’, you know. Or, just calling. Two viable options that do not include stabbing someone.”

“Burned,” Andrew corrected.

“What?”

Andrew toyed with a piece of skin hanging off near his nail. He tore it off and watched a sliver of blood rise to the surface. “I didn’t stab them.”He patted his pocket where his pack of parliaments lay. That was enough for Renee to piece together.

“I stand by my point. Why the extreme measures?”

Andrew met her eyes, and it was one of the rare times Renee saw the ripple of excitement in Andrew’s. However dark and singed by demons it was, it was excitement nonetheless. “Proof,” was Andrew’s only response.

Then the door to the Interim’s office swung open and the cleaning lady stalked out. She didn’t stop to look at Andrew as she left, but he felt the heat of her hate as if she’d burned him instead. He almost wished she would. It’d be the last thing she’d ever do.

“Minyard!” The Interim’s voice called from inside the office and Andrew stood up. But before he could get through the door, Renee slid her way past him and inside.

“What,” Andrew growled, “are you doing.”

“Damage control,” Renee huffed, right before she took a seat before Foxborough’s Vice President and Interim Dean. Also known as Ngoek Amayimor, one of the ten Council members for OCRA and the person Renee, Andrew, and Nevix answered to.

It went downhill from there.

But Andrew sank back in his seat, said his piece calmly and blankly as if he had no care in the world that one of the late Butcher’s henchmen was walking around the school like she owned it, and waited for Ngoek and Renee to digest the information. He mentally cringed, knowing Renee wouldn’t be happy that he kept this revelation from her. Though to be fair, he only was certain of it as of ten minutes ago.

Something Neil had said once nagged at Andrew’s mind until he could do nothing but find out for himself. _I don’t know who’s after me._ After Neil was poisoned, and in the same manner as Andrew was nearly killed, Andrew’s warning signs were on full blast. As preposterous as it was, as _obvious_ as it was, Andrew almost couldn’t wrap his head around the idea without proof.

But it was possible. Because the only other people with access to his room other than the usual suspects were the cleaning staff. And only one person was assigned to their hallway.

He had to give Alol credit; she could work a disguise like nobody’s business. But only so much fabric can disguise a prosthetic for so long. When he felt the tip of his cigarette not only singe but bang the thermoplastic leg rather than burn and sink into soft flesh, he knew he’d struck gold. Disastrous, demonic fool’s gold.

She put up a very entertaining act too in the aftermath. Kevin even believed her nonexistent pain.

Through the records OCRA possessed and after he’d first come across Neil, Andrew had read up on the Malcolm siblings, among other ex-Wesninski lackeys. The younger Malcolm, Romero, Andrew learned, had his own share of injuries. Missing an eye, near half his teeth, a rib or two, a finger, an ear…well, it was safe to say Romero had seen better days. The Butcher didn’t get his name for nothing, and using his skills on his own people wasn’t beneath him if there was even a rumor of disloyalty.

The same applied for Lola Malcolm. According to OCRA’s files, Lola was sent to university when she came of age. Only weeks later, the Malcolm parents signed over her life to The Butcher for some quick cash. The families were well entangled already, and Lola’s lack of human empathy made her a welcome candidate for the Russian crime lord. It took more than a hefty paycheck, however, to convince Lola to lay down and roll over for Nathan. Electroshock therapy and forced amputation finished the job. Her attitude, when all was said and done, was as if she never protested her fate at all.

“So you’re saying you want her arrested?” Ngoek wondered, dubious, when Andrew finished talking. “That’s easy enough.”

“No.” Andrew plastered on his best fake smile. The one Neil once joked made Andrew look like Pennywise. “I’m saying I want access to OCRA’s largest and finest array of human boning knives, diamond encrusted preferred, so I can flay that mother—“

“I believe my partner and I require direction,” Renee had cut in calmly. “Since Nevix does not know of this progression, I will relay the information as soon as I leave. But _what_ does the organization feel is best in regards to immediate action?”

“You and your fucking manners,” Andrew seethed. His smile didn’t falter, though the unfamiliar pull of his facial muscles was starting to hurt.

Ngoek steepled his fingers on the desk in front of him. After a moment of quiet consideration, he nodded. “Get in touch with your handler,” he stated to the pair, as if Andrew hadn’t spoken. “Let them know what happened, you suspicions, etcetera. You are _not_ ,” he directed this at Andrew, “to do anything, by any such means or capacities, that would act as an offensive measure against Lola. If that is really her—“

“Are you doubting me?” Andrew narrowed his eyes.

“—then her brother is also nearby, more than likely.” Ngoek’s ability to ignore Andrew’s jabs deserved a Nobel Peace Prize. “We need both in custody, not just one. If we take her now, we risk losing the other indefinitely.”

“So you want us to wait,” Renee clarified.

“Like sitting ducks,” Andrew added.

“Like the clear-headed, rational thinking agents we trained you to be,” Ngoek said, tone calm but firm. “Contact Nevix, and if—and _only_ if we get confirmed sights on Romero or either of the Malcolm’s handiwork, we will be in touch about direct action.”

“There is something flawed,” Andrew had mused, pushing himself up from his seat, “about an entity that claims to protect a populace, but only acts after the damage has been done.”

Ngoek smiled, and unlike Andrew’s, his was sincere. “It is a good thing then, Joseph, that OCRA never claimed to protect any such thing.”

“Then what is the fucking point of all of this?”

“Joseph.” Ngoek pushed up his glasses with the spine of his forefinger. “We have been through this before. It is foolish and, more so, we would be _wrong_ to prevent any sort of Dooms Day from occurring. That is simply not in your or my job description. The organization is not here to keep the world from burning.”

“Then what?” Andrew’s voice was a bare whisper in the office.

Ngoek hummed. “We sweep up the ashes.”

Andrew didn’t lash out with the twin daggers he kept sheathed to his wrists like he wanted to. He didn’t pull Ngoek up by the hair and slit the man’s throat and demand Ngoek try to sweep up what mess flowed out of him. He didn’t even flinch at Ngoek’s blatant disregard for life.

Ngoek was right. They had been through this before. The only thing keeping Andrew from calling the bullshit out or, better yet, walking out on OCRA completely, was the promise Andrew had made to his brother and cousin. Andrew sold his soul to the organization and the devil granted his family solace. He had nothing else to give. 

So, no. Andrew didn’t kill his boss. He didn’t run out of the room to track Lola— _Alol_? he had thought, _Alol,_ really? _That’s the best pseudonym that bitch could come up with?_ —or her brother down. He didn’t throw the most murderous tantrum his bones itched for.

Andrew simply mirrored the empty expression on Ngoek’s face and followed Renee out the door.

Now, sitting in the last row of the auditorium and near the exit doors, Andrew has that same itch to jump up and put his spey blade through the nearest target. He settles for running through a breathing exercise Nicky taught him and Aaron to calm his nerves. Or was it Dobson? Maybe both. Survival methods become repetitive over the years.

The seconds pass. Minutes. His pulse eventually calms and he finds himself capable of concentrating on the theatric mayhem around him. Some crew members are running around with props while one group is testing the sound system on stage. At one point the director calls for a couple cast mates to run through some lines as test dummies. Andrew sees Kevin come out from behind a curtain, say something to Abby who nods, before disappearing backstage again.

Technically, Andrew isn’t really allowed to be here, but no one has the nerve to kick him out. What Kevin said earlier keeps after Andrew like an annoying ear worm. He _could_ call Neil and see if the man’s up. It would be a better use of time than just waiting hours for Kevin to finish rehearsing while Andrew avidly avoids writing a paper due next Tuesday. But chances are Neil won’t even answer the phone if he’s awake. Or worse, Neil _would_ answer and then Andrew would have to say something.

By the time Andrew’s almost made up his mind to call Neil and just spit _something_ out—“Hi is usually a good start,” Kevin would say, and the fact Andrew one hundred and twenty percent _knows_ Kevin would say that has his blood boiling in an oddly pleasant way—Kevin’s reappeared back on stage in a neon blue pinstripe suit which, in Andrew’s humble opinion, is the most outrageous thing he’s ever seen Kevin wear.Apparently Kevin’s wish went unheard and Allison got her way with the costume.

“Too big,” Andrew sees Abby say, reading her lips. Or, “Rude kid,” though the former’s more likely. She calls for Allison and her assistant and says something to the pair that has the latter pulling out a tape measure for clothing and Allison running backstage again.

Andrew looks away from the stage and pulls out his phone. He’s overthought what to say enough that he decides to completely trash all ideas and instead just text Neil.

**_To Klein Fuchs_ ** **:** _Are you awake_

He waits a few minutes, tapping his finger against the side of the device. It becomes clear that Neil is either not awake (unlikely) or hasn’t seen the message (likely). Andrew sighs inwardly.

“Alright, I need Day, Falawn, and Alvarez on mic check,” Abby Winfield calls from the front. She marks something on her clipboard. “Day, Falawn, and Alvarez on mics please!”

Andrew grips his phone tighter and closes out of the message app. Neil will text back if he wants, but Andrew doesn’t need to wait around until noon for that to happen. Might as well go back to the dorm and pretend to sleep.

It’s just when he’s standing up out of the chair that the sight of Kevin once more appearing on stage, back in his cotton button down but still in those dastardly blue pants, has Andrew sitting down again. He stoically snaps a picture of the sight and sends it to both Neil and Kevin separately before turning off his phone once more.

The other two people Abby called for are talking with Kevin while they get their mics fitted on and adjusted. Kevin says something and the woman, Alvarez, laughs.

Day, ever the charmer. Andrew rolls his eyes to himself.

“Alvarez, run through the Defiance,” Abby instructs when the woman’s mic has been fitted. Abby looks down at her clipboard and clarifies, “Last ten lines.”

Alvarez nods and licks her lips before starting. Her friend whispers something to Kevin while they wait and Andrew sees Kevin’s eyes flicker to Andrew’s direction.

Alvarez starts. “I knew that I—“

The sharp and crackled edge of feedback breaks in and a crew mate runs up to fix the issue. After a moment of fiddling, they give the all clear to her and she begins again.

_"I knew that I must die_

_Like all men die at last._

_And though not truth you ever spoke,_

_The truth I never fled._

_If death must now come quickly,_

_If death must be my breath._

_I’ll count my lucky stars and say_

_I’ve gained more than I’ve shed._

_For death is truly more to me_

_Than life of abject misery._

_And thus this fate of mine is bliss_

_Not agony which you’ve decreed._

_For if I left my mother’s son_

_Polyneices on the crest,_

_I should have grieved such endless grief_

_With sole death to grant me rest._

_And if, for this, you deem me mad,_

_A fool! I deem you back.”_

As Kevin once explained to Andrew, Foxborough’s production of _Antigone_ is a modern adaptation, with lines adjusted somewhere between the familiar fashion and older diction. While some parts repeat the original text verbatim, Abby has also taken more creative measures and added her own take on the classic.For example, the original text calls for double suicide: Antigone first, then her lover Haemon when he discovers the former's body. In Abby’s production, Antigone, played by Alvarez, betrays Haemon, played by Kevin, by sleeping with Creon to convince her betrothed to turn his back on her, knowing Haemon will only survive his father’s wrath if he instead hates Antigone. Instead of killing himself, Haemon kills his father, Creon, and lives the rest of his life in a self-imposed exile.

In Andrew’s opinion, and he does have many, it’s just as much of a clusterfuck as the original.

When Alvarez finishes, Abby tells her to keep the mic and sends her backstage for Kevin and Falawn to continue. Falawn goes next and messes up on some lines, but Andrew’s not paying attention in favor of watching Kevin have his mic adjusted once more while he waits. The headset one of the techies are fiddling with won’t stay put, and Andrew can’t help but snort at the sight of Kevin having to lean halfway over for the shorter person to work.

“Thank you, Fal. Your Ismene is flawless, but remember to enunciate.” Enunciate is Abby’s favorite command. “Especially when you say ‘Done by a noose _herself_ had twined to death/ And last, our hapless brethren in _one_ day/ Both in a _mutual_ destiny involved/ Self- _slaughtered_ , both the slayer and the slain.’”

Falawn nods and asks a couple questions before they’re dismissed. Andrew considers opening his phone once more to video Kevin’s part when Day steps up, but realizes he’s acting too much like a proud Nicky and decides against it.

“Alright, Kevin,” Abby smiles from the ground floor and gestures up at him. “Let’s run through Haemon’s Lament. I want to hear _diction_. If I can’t hear it now, the audience won’t either.”

Kevin gestures in affirmation up on stage. “From the top?” His microphone crackles, the audio slightly too loud, and Abby waves for someone to turn his volume down. They comply and the mic’s whine falls to a reasonable pitch.

“Yes, but only part two,” Abby says.

Kevin gives a thumbs up and takes center stage. Andrew, who’s not even part of the production, is annoyed by Kevin’s stage presence. Kevin just fits in so _right_ above everyone in the spotlight, like the Cristo Redentor on top of Mount Corcovado. He’s made to be there, and the thing is, Kevin knows it. He knows he’s good; he’s never been humble when it comes to his talent.

He fucking infuriates Andrew sometimes, and that’s just part of Kevin’s charm.

Kevin adjusts the headset one last time before throwing his shoulders back and closing his eyes. There’s a moment of silence then that surrounds him. Not complete silence; the murmurs of other cast members in the back, or the pattering of crew mates’ feet as they shuffle back and forth running jobs still filter through. But the air around Kevin is so quiet and still you’d think a hurricane were to pass, and he’s just napping in the eye.

And then the storm strikes, and it’s all thunder and rain.

Kevin awakes:

_“Creon, do you hear my wails?_

_Do you bask in my lament?_

_Are you happy that I now know_

_And repent of my sweet sin?”_

Kevin’s eyes open and he looks to the ceiling as if seeing more than wood and marble but heaven and hell reigning down. The audio of his mic is clear as daylight, but the words cut like twisted, jagged metal.

_“I know of she, I know the pain_

_Of life lived without hope._

_So hear my cries, hear the grief_

_That Evermore shall sow:_

As he laments, he walks the stage with the sort of purpose only rage and sorrow can provoke. It’s only a mic test, to be true, but Kevin performs the monologue as if his character, his very pride itself, is the one being tested.

_“For she loved me soft and tender_

_As a broken newborn foal._

_Her hands were stubborn_

_Stable wheat, like gravel on the road.”_

He stops suddenly and swivels around—

_“But—!”_

His arm lashes out, reaching for some invisible string to tether him, some fantastical love to take away his heartbreak. He may as well reach for god and pray to be unmade.

_“She left me short and suddenly_

_When it came the springtime._

_I mourned the memory of a ghost_

_And rued the warning signs.”_

His voice softens near the end of line, regretting a fate he had no say in. The next word is softer still, merely a whisper that rings with a deafening chill.

_“But—“_

He closes his eyes and bows his head. And Andrew forgets to remember that none of this is real.

_“She loved me quiet_

_And always true, a genuine repose._

_Never loud and never false,_

_Her heart became my noose.”_

Panning his head across the auditorium, his gaze glassy as though he’s seeing an audience that doesn’t yet exist, Andrew knows the moment Kevin sees him, not the other-worldly specters. The wrinkles in Kevin’s forehead fall away, and recognition breaks with the sound of his resonating heartbreak.

_“Oh!_

_Antigone! Antigone!_

_Why have you loved me so?_

_Better to have lost than lived_

_under your ransomed hold._

_Better to have been the one_

_to burn your bones and go.”_

The resounding call of his lament shakes through the auditorium and some crew members assembling a backdrop pause to listen. Kevin ends on a hush, on a murmuring sea of emotion, on a whimper.

_“Oh, better—yes, better—to die alone_

_Than die without a soul!”_

Decrescendo. The thunder stifles.

Abby’s already clapping and noting something on her clip board. She says something to a mic tech and Kevin blinks like coming out of a trance. And Andrew—

Andrew doesn’t regret. It’s a lie he’s told himself more times than he remembers to remind himself it’s false.

But he’s really wishing he’d just stayed in his dorm than experience whatever the hell that was.

But the thought is quickly blown away when he hears the slightest gasp, more inhaled breath than anything. He turns to see the last person he expected, the first person he should have. It’s Neil behind him,of course. Always Neil, circling back into Andrew’s and Kevin’s periphery. He’s staring ahead at Kevin on stage, eyes alight with wonder and face pale in the shadows.

And then Andrew sees Neil’s injuries, cherry blood against plum, and wonders maybe, just maybe, Neil’s soon to be the ghost.

Andrew stands. Slowly. And watches a drop of Neil’s blood fall to the auditorium floor.

“ _Neil_.”

IV.

As much as he needs to—wants to—Nicky doesn’t fall asleep when Kevin leaves the room. He tries to, honest to God. He pulls the duvet over his head; he tosses and turns; he flips his pillow to the cool side before throwing it to the floor to stretch out, then sighs and drags the soft lump back up.

It feels like the whole world is asleep except him.

Because his mind is awake with everything and nothing all at once: the paper he almost failed because he didn’t have time to finish it; the date with Erik yesterday that could’ve gone loads better but Nicky was too tired to pretend to want to do anything other than dinner; Aaron’s gossip that Andrew and Kevin are messing around with the quiet sophomore…or freshman? Nicky can’t remember which, other than the man’s name; the tidbits of notes and outlines still on his agenda to create before his class at two and session with Robin later that day. She’s struggling to keep up with her general linguistics class, but Nicky thinks if he can finish a study schedule for her she’ll be back on track in no time…

The list of arbitrary importances rattle around his mind’s cage, his own inexhaustible sheep to count. Somehow and sometime later it starts to work. Cheek digging into his pillow, Nicky finally hangs on the fringes of sleep. It’s a cliff edge where conscious thought frays into mindless awareness. He welcomes it, but true sleep has not welcomed him in years. If ever. There’s too much ash to sweep away before he can let go and rest. At least awake, he can fill his attention with baseless distractions. But sleep is a one track ordeal heading straight for the drop off into an endless, inescapable ocean of inactivity. No activity means no distractions. No distractions means more ash.

But just when that ash becomes inevitable and Nicky surrenders to his body’s demands, he’s yanked from that precipice once more to a knocking at his door.

“Fuck me,” Nicky groans.

So close, and yet so very fucking far.

“Unlocked,” Nicky calls from the bed, voice muffled where he’s turned into his pillow. One glance at the clock tells him it’s barely six in the morning. He hadn’t even napped for the hour he wanted. “Come in.”

No one but Kevin would be here at this hour, and Kevin’s always forgetting something and running back to the dorm to retrieve it. Probably his script book or some prop he accidentally brought to the dorm. Nicky would be mad at Kevin for waking him up just when he’d finally started to fall asleep, but he can’t blame the other man for his body’s inability to function.

The door handle turns but stops prematurely. Locked.

Nicky sighs. Kevin must’ve locked the door when he left. What’d he do, Nicky wonders, lose his keys?

“One sec,” Nicky mutters. He drags himself from his bed and heads over. He doesn’t bother to grab his glasses but rather picks up his spare keys on the desk. Unlocking the door, he swings it open and says, “I _was_ almost asleep, F-Y…”

The jab dies on his lips when Nicky is met face-to-face with a bear of man who is, by no standards, Kevin Day. And not Nicky’s preference in bears, either. Even without his glasses, Nicky can tell that. He looks vaguely familiar, though Nicky has no idea why the man’s carrying—

“Can I help you?” Nicky asks. Maybe he’s asleep after all. He blinks and rubs his eyes, but when he opens them, he’s still faced with the same sight. “I don’t remember asking Student Services for a repair guy.”

The newcomer hoists the plank of wood he’s carrying over his shoulder. There’s a large black bag at the man’s feet like some goth Kris Kringle. Nicky notes the strong Russian accent when the man says, “Consider it a favor.”

It’s the last thing Nicky hears before the man swings his arm and connects the wood with Nicky’s head. It’s so sudden Nicky doesn’t even register the impact, nor the wood’s weight as it crumples in to the side of his skull, breaking skin and bone in one full sweep. 

Nicky falls to the ground, unable to fight sleep this time.

And nevermore will he struggle again.

The ash festers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Alvarez’s piece is my adapted version of Antigone’s defiance monologue  
> 2\. Kevin’s piece is not actually from any version of Antigone. It is an original poem that only exists within the bounds of titwtwe  
> 3\. As mentioned before, this chapter, the next chapter, and chapter 25 are/will be the most brutal chapters. If u r ever unsure about how explicit the content will be or would rather I summarize a certain part, plz feel free to reach out on my tumblr @ravens-play-exy-too
> 
> Chapter title from Ed Sheeran’s, I See Fire 
> 
> References to:  
> Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go  
> Life and Other Near Death Experiences, Camille Paglia  
> O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman  
> Dreams by Langston Hughes
> 
> Translations  
> Lektion eins, lesson one  
> Falsch, incorrect/wrong  
> Danke Gottkult: in German, “thank god cult”, in (a very bastardized version of) Swedish, “thank goodness”  
> Du bist wach: You’re awake  
> Klein Fuchs, little fox  
> Saukerl: bastard


	24. Angels Like You Can't Fly Down Here With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm breathing . . . Are you breathing too? . . . It's nice, isn't it? It isn't difficult to keep alive, friends just don't make trouble—or if you must make trouble, make the sort of trouble that's expected.”  
> ~Robert Bolt, A Man for All Seasons
> 
> “Let it hurl, let the awful song be heard  
> Blue bird, I know your beat  
> But your secret is safe with me  
> Because if secrets were like seeds  
> Keep my body from the fire,  
> Hire a gardener for my grave.”  
> ~Hozier, No Plan
> 
> "For oak and elm have pleasant leaves that in the spring-time shoot:  
> But grim to see is the gallows-tree, with its adder-bitten root,  
> And, green or dry, a man must die before it bears its fruit!"  
> ~Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: the aftermath of Neil’s injury from the previous two chapters, detailed descriptions of guns and knives (not used), very graphic description of an attempted murder that incorporates religiously perverted imagery

I.

Neil’s hand isn’t broken.

That’s the biggest surprise of the morning. After cleaning the wound as best as possible and deciding he may not need stitches, Neil picks up the remaining shards of glass out of his skin and on his bathroom floor. It hurts like a bastard to flex his hand, but the fingers move, at least.

The second surprise is the peace.

It washes over him as the last of his blood flows down the sink. Quieting, heart-numbing peace invades his veins and collects at the bottom of his lungs like tar. Enough to suffocate in if he only lays down long enough to allow it.

He ran and he ran and he ran. For so long. So far.

But now? Knowing that he no longer has to, that Ichirou’s already at the finish line preparing for doomsday—hell, holding the missile that sets into motion the beginning of the end—well, there’s no other word to describe the blanket of calm that’s settled over Neil.

No more running.

Not for him.

It’s almost too good to be true.

It’s as funny as a lie.

But Neil picks up glass and goes about his work. The call from Ichirou has finally cemented the last of Neil’s worries. He finishes tidying up his apartment while a new plan forms together in his mind. Out with the old, now only the new. The mundanity of domestic chores only solidifies the tar, sets it in stone. Feed the cats, throw away the trash. Check the security cameras, dust off the curtains. Eat something that sort of resembles food, watch more dust collect on the counter.

It starts to snow outside. He’s opened a window to release the stale air that’s infiltrated his apartment and Neil admires the tendrils falling for a moment he doesn’t have to spare. Then, he closes the window. Shuts the blinds.

He loads a gun.

One bullet, two, three, four. Again and again, thumb on the shot’s edge when he slides it into the clip. He empties an ammo box and opens another one. Thirteen bullets later and he’s got seventeen rounds. He could load his Kel-Tec PMR-30 for almost double that amount (it had been a birthday gift from Ichirou) but its jammed in the past and Neil doesn’t have time to fix it. 

More snow falls. It’s beautiful, until you have to live with it. Run in it.

Survive in it.

Mary hated snow. Too much made roads slick, hard to speed through. On foot escape was impossible.

Snow always showed tracks.

Neil doesn’t need to worry about his tracks now. He’s not running away. Though he very well is leaving.

He loads a second gun. The Glock feels light in his hand, steady against old callouses. It’s familiar roughness adds to the tar.

Peace, he tells himself.

The first firearm goes in the front holster of his waistband. Appendix carry is never comfortable, but it’s the most convenient for dislodging. The second is concealed within his shoulder holster that will be covered by the blazer he plans on wearing. He could prepare his Glock 19 because his ankle holster is still in good shape, but decides against it in favor of strapping on some knife sheaths. He gets three on each side of his belt secured before leaning down to strap a tekna on both ankles. The blades are slight enough not to be bulky, but heavy in the knowledge of their presence.

Peace.

A push dagger goes on his right hip, a Ka-Bar on his left. His twin khukuris accompany them. The military grade blades might be overkill, if not for the fact Neil’s his own army now. He’s made his bed and now he’s ready to lie in it. Until he’s ready to strike.

No more running. Not away. Not to. Neil’s last stand will end in slaughter, and Neil doesn’t plan to be the only body in the pile.

Peace.

By the time morning—real morning, not the offensive post-midnight/pre-dawn excuse for a morning—arrives, Neil is set. His body’s a weapon and ready for hell. For his own undoing.

He just has to convince Andrew and Kevin to flee for purgatory first.

In the cold of the March chill, and without any gloves, Neil’s injured hand immediately starts to suffer the consequences. The early Roman Calendar, when Romulus first instituted the annual time-keep, mandated the year’s beginning on the first of March. _Martius_. Now, the end and the beginning reach for each other, planting their roots in the same barren soil.

The frozen breeze almost feels like it’s blistering around Neil’s sliced skin. But when Neil goes to warm his hand by cradling it under his arm, the only heat he feels is blood crackling to the surface.

He wanted to leave the hand unwrapped, more suitable for free movement. But it's obvious after only a minute outside that that won’t cut it, and he retreats back to his apartment as quick as possible. Dasha meows at him when he opens the door.

“Sorry,” he murmurs in low Russian. “Can’t stay long.” He grabs a roll of gauze and medical tape from under the bathroom sink and makes quick work of his hand. The blood coats through the first layer. But Neil’s long known cuts (usually) look worse than they appear and settles for a second layer before finishing the job.

A stab injury would’ve been a different story.

Hand covered, jacket and blazer on, Dasha and Tolstushka petted once more, Neil departs his apartment. If things go as intended, he’ll have to call someone to check in on them and keep them alive. He never interacted with his neighbors, but maybe that one old couple that lived across from him could adopt them. They liked to wave at the cats whenever Dasha or Tolstushka sat in front of the curtains. The cats at least had enough food and water left to keep them comfortable for a week. Neil won’t have the means or capacities to worry about them after that.

Neil’s run so long that the thought of saying goodbye to his apartment and the cats doesn’t really occur. He cares about the two fiends, sure. They were a “housewarming” gift from Ichirou when Neil moved in. They were the only product The Family churned out that didn’t leave Neil’s stomach rolling at the sight. But Neil doesn’t have time or energy for nostalgia so makes quick work of leaving and making the two miles down to Foxborough’s West entrance that overlooks Riot Hill. The one bag strapped across his back carries the rest of his meager supplies: more money than Neil could hope to spend in his last week, an emergency aid kit Neil hopes he’ll never have to use, a box of 9mm’s, and a few packaged snacks thrown haphazardly in one of the pockets.

When he enters the the West gates, Neil heads down one of the short cut paths toward the dorms. He passes his familiar checkpoint, Noose, and quirks a brow at the ladder that’s positioned before it. The old gardener is nowhere to be seen.

Continuing on, Neil reaches the dorms and heads for Kevin’s first. He knocks on the door. Once, twice.

Nothing.

Neil sighs. Barging in isn’t an option; the door’s locked. He reaches for his phone to call Kevin, only to find two text messages from Andrew.

 ** _From Andrew_ ** **_:_ ** _Are you awake_

 **_From Andrew : _ ** _Attachment: 1 image_

Neil considers opening the message before deciding against it and sliding his phone back in his pocket. He heads for Andrew’s dorm; he’ll just show the blonde his answer in person. But when he reaches Andrew’s door and knocks once more, it’s not Andrew who opens the door, but a clone.

“Where’s Andrew?” Neil narrows his eyes as if the other man is holding Andrew hostage.

“Good-fucking-morning to you too,” Aaron grumbles. His eyes aren’t fully open, but he blinks blearily at Neil’s face, tilting his head at the sight of dried blood on Neil’s forehead. He missed a spot when he was washing up. “Fight with the alarm clock?”

Neil doesn’t have time for this. “Do you know where he is or not?”

Aaron crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. He’s wearing some black-knitted sweater that does nothing for his already pale complexion. “What’s it to you?”

“‘What’s it’…” Neil inhales a breath. _Peace, peace, peace._ Does kicking Aaron for his audacity count as a gesture of amity? Neil thinks it should. “Never mind. I’ll find him."

“Auditorium, probably,” Aaron calls when Neil’s almost turned the hall’s corner. “Day’s got some rehearsal. If he’s there, Andrew’s there.”

Neil doesn’t offer a response. But he makes a mental change of plans and decides to head there rather than checking Wreck. Kevin never mentioned having to do something so early today but it sounds like him. Always pushing, always excelling. Always fulfilling a life Fate rather he not live.

“Survival is the greatest act of rebellion,” Kevin had once told Neil, skimming through Neil’s notes on Montesquieu. They were in Day’s room, Kevin reading from his bed, Neil sat at Kevin’s desk chair and turned to face the former.

“Sounds like some shitty inspo message people tattoo on their shoulder,” Neil had said. “So…self-centered.”

Kevin had quirked a brow, always amused in his serious contemplation of Neil’s retorts. “Survival is self-centered?”

“No, just,” Neil gestured vaguely. “Thinking that everything’s against you. All the time. Thinking that you’re constantly this victim Fate has hanging from her fingertips. As if anyone’s that important.”

“We’re talking about two different things, then,” Kevin murmured. He tapped the page in front of him and smirked. “Survival is simply caring enough about yourself to keep going. And caring for yourself isn’t self-centered, self-indulgent, it’s just…preservation.”

“And that itself is an act of political warfare,” a third voice finished from the open doorway.

Kevin and Neil looked up to see Andrew leaning against the opening between room and hall. Staring right back at the pair, he held the same expression on his face he got whenever Kevin told Andrew he looked handsome, or when Aaron said something nice to him: mild but confused disgust.

“Lorde,” Andrew said in response to Neil’s also puzzled expression.

“The singer?”

“Audre Lorde,” Kevin clarified when Andrew’s disgust shifted from mild to extreme.

“Funny, though,” Andrew said. “That you find the thought of survival so selfish.

Neil had rolled his eyes, though he blamed the draft in the room for his pink cheeks. “I just said that’s not what I meant. How long exactly have you been eavesdropping?”

“It’s not eavesdropping when the door’s wide open.”

“He has a point,” Kevin shrugged. Neil just scoffed.

“The point is that the saying is ridiculous,” Neil argued. “Montesquieu was a revolutionary junkie and only interested in his version of political reform. In its literal words, it holds no weight. Context is another story. But generality can be spun however you want.”

“You can justify anything if you do it poetically enough,” Andrew muttered in agreement.

“Whose side are you on?” Kevin wondered, half laughing along the way.

“Switzerland,” Andrew deadpanned.

Neil grins at the memory, hollow inside and out. He hadn’t been aware just how wrong he was at the time. Survival _is_ an act of rebellion. One Kevin has down to a tee, like everything else he sets out to be.

Neil, though. Neil’s another matter. His rebellion comes in another fashion. Survival through survivors. In the memory of Kevin and Andrew he can live on, so long as Kevin and Andrew stay alive long enough for Neil’s rebellion to be worth it. If they make it even a second longer than Neil, it will be.

Making his way back through the campus, Neil enters the auditorium minutes later and heads down the hall to the main room. A few people pass him in the lobby but he pays them no mind. As he steps to open the side doors, not wanting to make a scene, he can already hear a familiar voice filling the room, boosted from some invisible speakers.

“—loved me quiet and always true, a genuine repose. Never loud and never false, her heart became my noose…”

Neil slips inside but doesn’t need to see the stage to know it’s Kevin. He does, though, he does look to the stage. Because it’s a sight he wouldn’t miss for the world.

Kevin mentioned to Neil one brazen night that Andrew was Kevin’s anaphora, consistent and cutthroat and impossible to ignore. If that’s true, then Neil thinks Andrew’s the refrain, the pillar that stays upright when the world begins to shake.

And Neil’s the goddamn congregation singing their praise.

That’s how Neil feels now, watching Kevin turn a warm-up into an earth-shattering soliloquy. One glance to the side shows Neil that Andrew is exactly where Aaron said he would be, watching Kevin from the last row of seats. Neil's ready to stuff his gods into a body bag like an obsessive stalker and drive them straight for Eden, away from the prying eyes and hands of The Family. Where they can’t be touched, where Kevin can rebel for eternity and Andrew can garner the winds of reprieve at last.

Where Neil is but a fading memory than a throbbing chest wound.

“Oh! Antigone! Antigone! Why have you loved me so? Better to have lost than lived under your ransomed hold…”

Neil listens to the words like he’s never listened before. He thinks he loves Kevin and Andrew, even though he’s never been in a position to know if that’s the right word. He thinks he feels more than love, for how could simple love ever encompass the machinations of stars and their orbits? He thinks he’s not quite sure what love really means.

There’s not enough love in the world to bring back the dead. And Kevin’s right. Or, whatever character he’s playing is. Better, truly, to let go of Neil before The Family leashes them all. Better to lay to rest a memory before the memories take hold too gnarled to uproot. Better for Neil to die alone to the hands of Ichirou than die knowing he’d sold his soul for nothing.

He’s so lost in the Knowing that he doesn’t react to the first call of his name. Or the second. By the time Andrew’s standing in front of him, cradling Neil’s injured hand—shit, the blood’s soaked right through—Kevin’s already gone from the stage, another actor running a mic test to take his place.

“I’m awake,” Neil says quietly. Andrew only frowns.

 _“Deine Hand—“  
_  
“We need to talk,” Neil cuts in. His eyes flicker to the seats of the auditorium, then to the exit doors.“My hand’s fine.“

A low growl. “Neil.”

“Really. I swear—“

Andrew resists Neil’’s attempts to lead them out of the room. “Stop. Your head is bleeding.”

“No, it’s just smeared. I…Look, Andrew—“

“What the hell, Fox,” Andrew mutters. Neil flinches. “Can’t leave you alone for a day, can I?”

Andrew mutters something else to himself that Neil doesn’t quite catch. He licks his thumb before reaching forward and wiping away the crimson-brown stain at the base of Neil’s hairline. “You are a mess—“

“ _Andrew_. Hör mir zu, verdammt.”

Andrew’s thumb stills against Neil’s skin, eyes meeting the taller man’s. “No more pretending, I see.”

Neil doesn’t acknowledge Andrew’s call out for the German. He wants to lean into the touch but forces himself to step back. He nods his head toward a shaded corner where no crew or cast members are lingering. One girl carrying a sword prop glances at Neil as she walks past but doesn’t pause to linger or ask if he’s okay. Then again, a battered student isn’t close to the worst thing Foxborough may see in a day.

Andrew acquiesces and follows Neil over to the more private space. Neil racks his gaze over the other man, not simply drinking but drowning in every drop of Andrew’s presence while it lasts. There’s dark bags under Andrew’s eyes, harsher than usual, that certainly reflect Neil’s own. But even in lax outerwear, Andrew is larger than life. Figuratively. He and Kevin are everything Neil could have dreamt up. And like dreams, they will fade away too.

Neil swallows down unbidden emotion. He can’t meet Andrew’s eyes when he says, “The Family, Andrew. It’s over. I…Ichirou’s coming to Columbia.”

Andrew’s expression doesn’t change and for once, it pisses Neil off. “Why are you bleeding.”

Neil blinks. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Hm.” Andrew cricks his jaw and holds his hand out, palm up. “Did you hear me?”

Neil realizes what Andrew’s asking a second too late and gingerly holds his own injured hand out for Andrew to take. Andrew unwraps the outer layer of gauze slowly so not to irritate the wounds. “It’s nothing.”

“Neil—“

“I fell.”

Andrew doesn’t speak until he’s finished unwrapping the second layer. “You are impossible.”

“I try.” At that, Andrew does glance up, but continues to shed Neil’s hand of the soaked bandage. Neil starts to shrug off his backpack to hand Andrew the first aid kit before remembering the ammo supply on him and how difficult it would be to answer just why exactly it’s there.

Except he doesn’t need worry. Andrew pulls out a roll of gauze from his coat pocket that has Neil’s eyes narrowing. “I hope you’ve sterilized this,” Andrew says rhetorically. "I don’t have peroxide.” He pauses as if considering. “Got some Bourbon in the dorm, though.”

“You just happen to carry gauze on you?” Neil demands. “All the time?”

“Kevin likes when I play doctor with him,” Andrew drawls.

Neil’s pretty sure his eyes are bugging out of his head by now. “You’re joking with me.”

“I’m joking with you.”

Andrew finishes wrapping the new roll around Neil’s hand, criss crossing around the palm before wrapping once more horizontally. “So why do you just _have_ gauze?” Neil asks again.

Andrew doesn’t answer that. Nor does he answer why he always carries knives, or why the smell of burned skin still makes Andrew’s stomach turn. Some habits you just can’t outgrow. Aaron has his own. To this day, Andrew’s brother refuses to go anywhere without a pack of aloe somewhere on his person. Even if his skin doesn't itch and crawl as much as it used to, the routine of survival offers a crutch.

When it becomes clear Andrew doesn’t plan on answering, Neil gives up and gets back on topic. “Andrew, this is serious. Ichirou called last night. He’s coming to Columbia Friday to retrieve Kevin. There’s…”

Neil trails off, watching understanding dawn on Andrew’s features. They harden slightly, eyes turning black, before the wall is smoothed over with fresh cement. Andrew doesn’t speak, so Neil takes it as allowance to keep talking. In a hushed whisper, he tells Andrew everything Ichirou said. But he doesn’t stop there. He describes the plan he came up with that morning. That Neil would go to Columbia while Andrew and Kevin escaped West. Maybe OCRA could transplant them across the continent—hell, to _another_ continent. Neil doesn’t know, but any option that doesn’t include staying in South Carolina seems best. Neil knows enough about Andrew’s employers that they have the means to uproot Andrew and Kevin’s entire remaining family and make them disappear for as long as possible. It certainly wouldn’t be forever; The Family has a way of sniffing out anyone they wanted if they just so had the energy. And when it comes to Kevin Day, they would certainly have all the energy.

“It’s not foolproof, I know,” Neil says. “But it’s something. It’s much more than staying here any longer. I can make as much of a distraction with Ichirou on Friday—“  
  
“Distraction,” Andrew repeats. It’s the first thing’s said since Neil started talking. Neil can’t tell if the blank expression on his face is disgust, distrust, or disbelief. Maybe all of the above and then some. “And what ‘distraction' exactly can a fox like you put up to an international crime syndicate?”

Neil’s mouth is uncomfortably dry. He has to convince Andrew to contact OCRA and get them out of the state. He _has_ to. “My father was the Butcher, Andrew,” he says, much more calm than he feels. “Don’t forget that he trained me. I know what I’m doing.”

“I never questioned your knowledge,” Andrew spits. Another first; now, a sign of emotion. Anger. “I question your intentions.”

“My _intentions_?” Neil shakes his head. A movement by the exit catches his attention and he lowers his voice. “Andrew, this isn’t about me, alright? Fuck, you have to understand that—“

“Oh, I _have_ to?”

Andrew’s mock refrain of similar words Neil once shot at him barrel into Neil’s chest with full force. His back hits the wall and he couldn’t contain the growl of frustration if he tried.

“Christ, ‘drew. I thought we were past this. I thought you trusted me.”

Andrew’s glare immediately melts, taut muscles falling flat. It’s not anger any longer. Neil doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. “I do not trust you,” Andrew starts, as quiet and brutal as a heart attack, “to come back to us in one piece.”

Neil’s glad he’s leaning against the wall because his knees decide to give out then and there. The backpack he wears cuts into his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t feel anything except for Andrew’s arms pulling Neil to him.

“I despise martyrs,” Andrew whispers and Neil can only cling back, his injured hand throbbing.

“I can live with that,” Neil whispers back.

“No, Neil. You _will_ live.” Andrew pulls back, vision turning inward as his thoughts race. “I have to contact my handler. They said they were planning for other variables. If this is what they meant, I’ll make a fucking martyr out of _them_ —“

“Other variables?” Neil blinks. “What the hell does that mean?” Before Andrew can roll his eyes, Neil beats him to it. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Wrong devil.” He rakes his uninjured hand through his hair. “Who’s your handler?”

Andrew releases a breath. “I don’t know. They go by Nevix.”

“A student here?”

“I think.” Andrew shrugs. “No certainty. I’ve never met them. Fucking pseudonyms, can’t keep track of shit.”

It sounds like a complaint Andrew’s long been holding, though Neil exhibits enough self control not to call out Andrew’s ‘Fox’ hypocrisy.

“Fine. Call them. The way I see it,” Neil says, “OCRA can help us cause a distraction. Seeing as they’re so concerned with you protecting Kevin and all. I’ll go to Columbia—“

“No,” Andrew interrupts once again. That’s it. The one word, the final sentence. There would be no argument over the matter.

“Andrew, be reasonable for once. This is the only way and you know it—“

“Too many good men,” Andrew whispers in German and Neil flinches.

“What?”

“Stop,” Andrew says, “being so sacrificial. There are other ways.”

“ _What_ ways?”

The sound of a door slamming shut to their left breaks their attention and the pair look up. “Let me discuss with Nev and my partner. Try to set up a meeting before noon. I don’t want Kevin hearing of any of this until a plan is in the fucking Rosetta Stone.”

Neil relents. “Fine. I have to say I’ve never trusted Walker. But if you do, that’s enough for me.”

Andrew’s eyes narrow again. He releases a tired breath. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear you admit you know my partner’s identity.”

“That’s the least of your worries now,” Neil shoots back. “If you’re so stubborn about doing things your way, you better be prepared for the ramifications. This isn’t going to be some mess a janitor can clean up. We don’t have the privilege of discretion anymore.”  
  
A shadow crosses Andrew’s face. “Speaking of janitors. There’s something else you should know.”

Neil gestures his hands outward. _Any day now._

“OCRA’s suspected foul play on campus. What with the deaths over the past year, all connected to The Family one way or another.” Andrew chews the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t add him almost being a statistic. “I may have proof The Family wasn’t the instigator.”

“What do you mean, ‘ _may_ ’?”

“Insiders,” Andrew says. He seems to weigh the consequences of elaborating on no doubt highly classified information. But as Neil said, they don’t have theprivilege of discretion anymore. “Someone has purposely been attacking The Family through her investments. They started with Andrea, then Luka. Last was Gordon. M.O is staging a suicide, sometimes an accident if they’re feeling creative.”

“Same people after you.” It’s not so much of an educated guess as it’s placing puzzle pieces together. Building immunity, dust…No fucking wonder Andrew’s a basket case. Neil would be too, if he weren’t already.

Andrew’s gaze doesn’t wither from Neil’s.

“And you.”

II.

In the English language, there are approximately 171,476 words in current use.

But none can accurately describe the way Kevin feels when Neil’s hands brush lightly across his cheeks, grounding him to earth more starkly then gravity could ever hope to; or when Andrew’s breath intermingles with Kevin’s own when they lay side by side, an endless oasis of possibility.

In the French language, there are approximately 131,275 words in current use.

But none can accurately recount the constant awe and adoration that fills Kevin up when he’s reminded that _he’s not alone he’s not alone he’s—_

Known.

Millions of words across the world, filling every plain and valley and mountain-top with contrived thought, and yet none will ever come close to describing the utter, soul-crippling distress Kevin suffers when he finds out that he’s been lied to the entire. fucking. time.

When he finishes his mic test, Abby thanks Kevin and tells him to take ten before they officially start rehearsal. Kevin knows Andrew is still in the back, but as he wraps up his last few lines, Kevin notices a second shadow emerge.

Neil.

Kevin grins and heads for the stage exit that leads to the back of the room while another cast member takes his place on stage. Neil and Andrew are uncannily perceptive, but if Kevin’s careful he just might be able to sneak up on them and take them by a surprise. Lord knows Andrew’s a pro at it. The thought of such a childish victory, sidling up behind Neil and Andrew and catching them off guard sends an innocent thrill through Kevin. Not one he’s much used to, but it’s there nonetheless.

“How immature,” Andrew would say, before pulling Kevin and Neil closer like moths to a flame. Though who’s the moth and who’s the flame is neither here nor there.

Unsurprisingly, Kevin’s plan doesn’t work. Surprisingly, it’s not because Neil or Andrew see Kevin. Actually, they don’t see him at all.

Instead, it’s Kevin the one taken aback. What an irony, to be the one prepared with a joke, only to end up the punchline. Because when he reaches the side entrance doors to the auditorium, Kevin hears Andrew and Neil talking of something straight from Kevin’s nightmares.

Kevin thinks he must be asleep. C'est la seule explication.

_Wake up, wake up._

_Why am I not waking up?_

Because Neil’s saying, _Ichirou—_

And Andrew’s saying, _Promise—_

And Neil’s pleading, _Friday—_

And Andrew’s whispering, _Distraction—_

And before Kevin’s mind has caught up with his body, he’s stumbling into a wall to get out the door, and down the hall and into the Outside, no more care about being discreet because what does this mean— _Columbia_ —what does Neil mean— _Family_ —what does it mean to _be_ what does it _mean to be_ what does—

“Oh my god,” Kevin’s choking. Struggling to breathe. His feet carry him him over the concrete path into the jungle of delirium. He’s dreaming, he knows he’s dreaming, because what he just heard cannot be true, what he just heard…

Makes sense.

“Oh my god.” It’s a wondrous antiphon, the blasphemous anaphora—

“This isn’t happening.”

Kevin’s hands are on his knees, the once injured limb throbbing in phantom pains. He’s shaking, he’s going to throw up. He’d initially been shocked into stillness when he first heard them talking and now he’s a pile of nerves and sinew coming apart. Unspooling like dropped thread. The truth overwhelms him and _isn’t this what he wanted?_ The devils on his shoulders demand. Isn’t this what Kevin always begged for, prayed for, lived for? To be overwhelmed, to be undone, to be unwound inch by inch, atom by atom, until nothing remained?

Neil talked of demons, Neil practically admitted to Kevin before.

_I can’t tell you everything._

_But what I can say is just as bad._

_You’ll hate me for it regardless._

And Andrew…

_Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to._

_There is no this. So long as_ he _is involved._

_Pause. Pause. Pause._

Every little detail Neil admitted he couldn’t share. The inconsistencies, Neil needing help with French, Andrew insisting time after time again Neil never needed help. The secret conversations passed between the two, guilty glances, apologetic sighs. _He knew he knew he knew_. Every unspoken truth, every omission of Andrew’s job, of why he stayed at Foxborough when he claimed to have no future aspirations. It should have been obvious. Everything started with The Family. It’s no twist that everything must end by the same hand.

Neil works for...

Kevin’s breath leaves him and he falls unceremoniously to the ground, grasping for threads.

Neil. His and Andrew’s Neil. Works for...

The cement offers no consolation. Black spots crawl into the edge of Kevin’s vision.

_No. Not now._

Kevin forces himself up, stumbling in his escape. But he pushes forward with the strength of a thousand ruins crumbling into oblivion. The morning sun balks at him, merciless and beautiful.

And Andrew knew.

Andrew knew the whole time.

 _“Andrew_ ,” Kevin sobs. It’s a dry heave, no trace of tears or damp sorrow. There’s only an aching emptiness in Kevin’s bones, heat and marrow sucked dry.

He never grabbed his coat on the way out but his body doesn’t register the chill just yet. He’s buzzing with a sort of energy he’ll only be aware of when all is said and done. A mixture of shock, of flight over fight, of desperation, of survival.

Of heartbreak.

 _Andrew thinks I’m gullible,_ he’d once told Neil. But no. Not only did Andrew _know_ just how gullible Kevin was, Neil did too. God, they must take him for a fool.

And after this...Kevin knows they’re well justified to believe that.

It’s a fragile slope Kevin hangs on. He doesn’t doubt the care, the—fuck it, the _love_ —Andrew and Neil have for him. And Kevin certainly doesn’t waver in his for them.

But the slope slides, an avalanche forming, and Kevin’s struggling not to fall off the precipice. Because under the rocks and melting ice is so much grief, so much anger.

Ichirou has another thing coming if the bastard thinks he’ll take Neil away from Andrew and Kevin.

And Neil...

“I detest martyrs,” Kevin had heard Andrew say. Point to Minyard, Kevin can’t agree more. Not when it’s a piece of his soul at stake.

Maybe there’s a god above, but Kevin won’t wait around to find out. Either Andrew and Neil are much darker than the depths of hell, and in that case Kevin knows straight where he’s heading, or they have their reasons for not filing Kevin in on anything. The anger isn’t gone; it’s heavy and steep, but the need to know, to understand, to make things right is stronger.

He’ll find them when he’s ready, but right now he just needs to remember how to breathe.

Falling snowflakes settle on his hair, his shoulders, as dull and lifeless as March ambitions. When his heart rate calms and lungs no longer spasm with need, Kevin blandly congratulates himself for staying conscious. He’ll take the miracles he can get. He scans his surroundings and realizes with a start he’s near the staff parking lot, a clear shot away from Scavenger’s field and, a little farther, Noose. He thinks he sees a dark shadow near the monstrous oak. But he blinks and the figure’s gone, just leaves and bark howling in the breeze. He’s further from the auditorium than he expected to go. His ten minute break must be up by now. Abby will be wondering where he is if he doesn’t get back soon. But he can’t find the will to leave just yet. To face the inevitable.

To face them.

Kevin shakes some snow off his hair and turns.

But the shadow follows.

He should’ve trusted his senses. They exist for a reason.

Because—

As a young child, Kevin had been exposed to many scents that shaped his memories of the past. Jasmine and cedar wood, his mother’s perfume. Bergamot orange, the air freshener that made his eyes well up until he’d coughed half a lung out when Kayleigh’d accidentally sprayed too much in their beat down suburban. Honey and leather, the fresh smell of his first, new pair of Edmonds he got for Christmas ten years ago.

But there are just as many scents he’d never been exposed to, never had a reason for knowing if he’d been exposed. Like tuberose, like durian, like mustard seed.

Like the sweet sharp tang of chloroform flooding his nostrils the second before the hands cover his face.

If he’d followed his instinct, if he weren’t so overcome by emotion that clouds his senses, he may have been able to see the end coming.

But not even a whimper escapes him when the darkness takes hold.

III.

A commotion to the front of the auditorium interrupts Andrew’s train of thought. Neil swivels his head to where Abby is stalking out from backstage onto the deck. She’s saying something in a hushed tone to a crew member holding a container of paint brushes. The man shrugs and gestures to another prop specialist, who only shakes their head at whatever Abby says.

“I tried calling,” Neil hears Allison say, strong voice carrying all the way to the back. “It went straight to voicemail.”

“Damn it.” Abby runs a hand over her face. “I said take ten, not a lunch break.”

Falawn pipes up from where they stand next to Allison who’s measuring them for a robe. “He might’ve got stuck in line at Roost’s.”

Allison tsks. “Nah. Kevin chugged enough coffee to power Wreck for a day. I’d bet twenty bucks he’s at his dorm grabbing the character shoes I nagged him to bring weeks ago.”

Falawn and she snicker while Abby talks into a walkie-talkie she’s pulled from her waist. When she gets no response, she sighs her decision to continue on with rehearsal as planned.

Neil turns back and meets Andrew’s eyes, and it’s clear they’re thinking the same thing.

“He was just here,” Neil murmurs. Andrew’s eyes flicker to the exit. But just when Neil opens his mouth to say something else—and what that is, he’s not really sure—a vibration from the phone in his pocket pulls his attention.

It’s a text. Neil’s about to slide it away again, more than annoyed with the crappy piece of communication. But the sender ID doesn’t match the tone of the message. It’s from Nicky. But unlike any other message the man would send followed by a thousand exclamation marks and emojis Neil doesn’t understand, the text is comprised of only word. No punctuation, no follow up. Only:

 **_From Nicholas_ ** **_:_ ** _Noose_

Neil frowns at the device. Andrew’s scratching his chin and muttering something about the miracle that is Neil opening his phone. Neil ignores him.

 ** _To Nicholas :_** _What?_

Neil taps the side of the device with his forefinger before adding,

 ** _To Nicholas_** : _Is Kevin with you?_

It’s only a moment later Neil notices a problem. It’s not the fact that Nicky doesn’t respond immediately, though that in itself is slightly unusual, but that the text messages Neil tries sending don’t go through. The screen immediately pops up with a notification that his texts cannot be delivered. He doesn’t need to understand technological quirks to know something’s wrong.

Andrew looks between the phone and Neil. “What.”

“Nicky’s updated my study schedule.” Neil shrugs and slides his phone away. “Probably won’t be needing tutoring again, though.”

Andrew huffs some version of a laugh only recognizable in hell. “I’ll check Day’s dorm. Need to cancel lunch anyway at this rate.”

His mind’s still on Kevin and Neil’s thankful for the distraction. He nods his head in agreement. “I need to run by Wreck for a minute. I’ll find you after. If you get in touch with your handler, let me know.”

Andrew doesn’t question Neil’s intentions this time. He lifts a hand to Neil’s cheek, thumb gently pressing into an old scar. “Don’t run too far.”

Neil smiles, ever so sadly, and lays his hand over Andrew’s. “Promise.”

•

Neil doesn’t head for Wreck. After making certain Andrew’s taken a shortcut to the dorms, the one that doesn’t pass in front of Neil’s destination, Neil takes a sharp left and heads straight for his real target.

 ** _From Nicholas_** : _Noose_

The message rings in his mind. Noose, Noose, Noose. Those bastardous roots finally coming clean. Checking his phone once more, Neil’s texts still have not gone through. It may as well be hylam vocas. Trying to call out to someone you don’t even know is lost for good.

The sight he finds when he reaches Noose only confirms the previous sentiment.

It’s a common held belief that there are certain _firsts_ in one’s life that will never leave the mind. Like one’s first day of school, bright and filled with childhood anticipation. Like one’s first kiss, the awkward slide of inexperienced flesh against flesh, heartbeat against chest. Like one’s first funeral, the one you attend for another, not the one others attend for you.

Neil still remembers his first kill. The sight of the man’s blood that stained his Adidas was more sickly than Nathan’s scrutiny. “Not so deep next time,” Nathan had corrected and pointed to a nasty gash Neil had made near the man’s kidney. “They last longer when you’re careful." Or the first time he heard Mary laugh. She’d driven over a particularly harsh pothole that sent Neil’s pomegranate half flying, seeds and juice splattering the window in front of him. He’d expected her to slap him, berate his clumsiness. But instead she’d pulled over to the side of the road, lungs heaving in amusement as Neil tried to clean up the mess with a handful of stray napkins from the enter console, his stained hands only adding to the mess.

His mind is a constellation of memories. And as Neil looks on to the crucified form of Nicholas Hemmick strung to the tree, Neil accepts with a sort of certainty that normally comes long after time has passed that this is just another moment to immortalize amongst the stars.

“Oh, Nicky.” Neil doesn’t need a degree in communications to know there’s no way on earth Nicky sent that text. Neil closes his eyes and, for the first time in his life, offers a silent prayer of thanks to any being listening that it is Neil who came across Noose and not Andrew. Because if Andrew were the one to behold the sight of his cousin, arms bound in rope and muscles pulled taut where each is tied to the thick base of two branches like some mythical Redeemer, Neil is not certain that Andrew would come back from such a fall.

The ladder Neil had noticed when he’d first passed Noose that morning is nowhere to be seen and it doesn’t take any extra thought to understand the purpose it served. Nicky’s legs are tied together as well, feet more than two meters off the ground. Too high up for Neil to cut loose. His face is bloodier than Neil thinks is salvageable and there’s a good chance those tied wrists are broken. Whatever uncovered skin there is, like his hands and face, are chapped and raw from the cold. He’s only wearing a thin sweater and slacks and even his feet are missing shoes, merely socked. Thankfully, he’s probably not been out long enough to develop frostbite. Yet.

He knows there will be no answer, but Neil can’t help but whisper, “What happened to you?”

Neil takes in his surroundings. No one’s nearby, still too early and in an area partially secluded for there to be any traffic. Whoever’s done this is either long gone or very good at hiding. If the latter is true, Neil may be next to hang alongside the man. But he takes his chances and makes the last stretch up to Noose until he’s directly in front of the crucified Nicky. If he were to just stretch out an arm, Neil would be able to touch the sole of Nicky’s feet, white cotton socks now bloodied pink from his assault. Nicky’s back is flat against Noose’s trunk, his arms stretched out in forty five degree angles from his chest and rooted to two nearby branches with hemp rope.

A blanket of undaunted sadness settles over Neil’s shoulders. It’s no match for the morning chill.

“What’s your name?” Nicky had asked Neil on Neil’s first day on campus. The older man had been assigned to give Neil the full tour of Foxborough and acclimate him to the students. When Neil made it clear he had no interest in small talk, Nicky took it in stride and instead rattled off anything and everything that popped into his head. Neil received a full tour of the dining and lecture halls, Witherspear, Wreck and Windermere—another one of the campus gardens—among other places. Neil felt he received an exclusive look into Nicky’s soul just as well. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the worst thing.

Unlike Kevin, Nicky tried pressing Neil for details of Neil’s life. But it hadn’t been the sort of intrusiveness that accompanied Andrew’s demands. It was careless, filler noise for Nicky, Neil could tell. It wasn’t to say Nicky didn’t care about the answer. But Neil had the inclination that Nicky was the sort of person used to keeping the conversation going before silence became cavernous.

“It’ll be tough here, Neil,” Nicky had told him as they wrapped up the tour. His ever present smile didn’t fade but rather sombered with his words. “I won’t lie; some days you might go for a swim and feel like you rather never surface. It’s okay to meet the waves, yeah? But remember to come up for air.”

Neil had glanced up where he’d been watching a pair of seniors laughing in the courtyard. “Is everyone here as dramatic as you?”

Nicky’s grin brightened, canines sharp. “Just wait until you meet my roommate.”

Hylam vocas. Futile efforts. Neil asks in the present, because he knows the answer, because it’s what you say when you can’t imagine it actually being true, “Nicky—Nicky, can you hear me?

“Are you breathing?”

The answer is obvious. And the truth of it could compose a tragedy in itself. Because it’s _yes_. Nicky _is_ breathing. The rise and fall, however weak, of his battered chest says enough. And breathing means he’s alive, which means he might survive, which means he’ll have to live with the aftermath of his own murder.

Neil regrets every word he’s said in disparagement of survivors. Living is a world harder than not.

The sound of something rustling in the wind pulls Neil’s attention down. In Nicky’s back pant’s pocket lay a folded piece of paper half shoved under the fabric, half sticking out for all the elements to meet. Upon its discovery, Neil is filled with a grim certainty that it’s been placed specifically for Neil to find. Whoever sent that text to Neil via Nicky’s phone intended for Neil to see this too.

When he reads the words that are inscribed on the paper’s visible edge, his suspicions are confirmed true.

для падшего принца, the paper reads.

For the fallen prince.

Neil swallows. That’s not all. He pulls the paper free of Nicky’s pocket and holds it up to the light. There’s a signature under the message, a singular name that has Neil’s blood near freezing where it races in his veins.

Ромеро _._

No—

But…

There’s a second object waiting for Neil. It’s a nicely sheathed blade sticking out of Nicky’s other back pocket. Neil may not know Nicky as well as Andrew or Kevin, but Neil can bet on his life that the outrageously long pocket knife doesn’t belong to Nicholas Hemmick.

Neil would recognize the custom-crimson Laguiole Le Fidele in a heartbeat. It can only belong to one person possible. The person to whom Neil watched his father gift the weapon as a reward of service a decade ago.

 _Insiders_ , Andrew had said. _Someone has purposely been attacking The Family through her investments._

Same people after you.

_And you._

I don’t know who’s after me, Neil had said. He hadn’t been lying. But—

Ромеро.

Romero.

Neil thinks, _Oremor_.

From the latin ‘oremo’, to stir, to mix around. To mix the words, the reality around. Romero. Oremor. Mirror images, reflected identities.

_It can’t be—_

But it can only be.

The name itself could have been passed off as a trick, an anomaly, a coincidence. But there’s no question with the existence of the blade. Romero left the weapon for Neil to find so there’d be no doubt just who was knocking down Neil’s door.

Neil clenches the paper in the hand not holding the knife. The page crumples it into a crinkled mess before he realizes there’s more words on the underside. Different print. He unfolds the paper and if he thought his blood had frozen before, it’s glaciered now.

There’s a poem.

Not just any poem. Neil recognizes it as one of the works he’d skimmed past in Witherpsear the night before with Kevin and Andrew. It’s one of Claire’s nameless pieces, only marked with the roman numerals _xxiv_.

As he reads over the words, mindlessly spinning the Laguiole Le Fidele in figure eights with his middle and forefinger, the glaciers thaw and the core of Neil’s very being begins to buzz with renewed vigor. He can’t tell if this is a sick joke, a comedy act worthy of the seventh circle of hell, or if the stars have aligned with such unadulterated malice.

Because the poem is not just a warning. It’s an order.

_xxiv_

_Here comes the fox, lo! rides the beast,_

_Snarling with Slaughter-teeth._

_Here comes the bird, there flies the prey!_

_To sing a prayer that wastes away._

_But oh, but why?_

_But where he lay?_

_The little fox nay’ never say._

_But oh, but how?_

_The blood-beast may_

_Pray until he nor long stay._

_Run, run, friend of the war!_

_Run until your heart is sore._

_Oh wild, oh terror, oh blue bird on high!_

_Sing the slaughter of the fox who rides,_

_O’er the grass gore,_

_Plains and fury;_

_O’er the streets_

_Drowning in ‘rum._

_O’er the funeral march—_

_Fox, you best hurry!_

_O’er the orchards filled_

_With orphaned love._

_There goes the fox, lo! flees the beast!_

_Shaméd is the Slaughter-heap._

_Now goes the bird, there flies the prey!_

_To sing their prayer for end of days._

Like the prisoner’s acceptation of his own execution, the same sense of fragile peace that had overcame Neil that morning returns in full force. It’s a peaceful desolation, like the tendrils of calm that seep into the cracks of a battered city’s ruins. The quiet of brewing violence, the serenity of blood-tinged desire.

The peace only lasts until Neil reads the last, the final message. It’s written under the poem in the same neat print as the backside. It’s no dark manifesto, no promise of blood and revenge Neil would expect from his father’s right hand man.

It’s an address.

Neil knows the address, and for a sickening moment he doesn’t know why he knows. Then it hits him: the legacy, Noose, _blue bird on high—_

It’s the location of Mort Claire’s family manor.

But why would…

_“Kevin.”_

The paper falls from Neil’s numb hand and he scrambles to grab it before the wind steals it away for good.

He knows, even if it's the last thing he does, he’ll drive Romero’s blade down the bastard’s throat and gut the man from the inside out as if he were mining for gold. Andrew was right. God _damn_ it, Andrew was more than right, Neil now sees. There are more people than just The Family at play. Its Neil’s _old_ family, the remains of his father’s empire. He’d always known Ichirou hadn’t ordered Seth and Andrea’s execution. Or, early retirement, as the boss would have put it. So must it really be such a surprise their deaths were due to the Malcolms, the very people Neil first ran from? He knows they’d desired to retrieve him ever since he and Mary made their escape all those years ago. The Malcolm’s very existence was why Stuart granted Neil asylum. But after The Family tired of Stuart and took Neil for themselves, the Malcolms and the rest of his father’s henchmen seemingly dropped off the face of the earth.

Or, at least, Neil thought.

He’d seen the gardener watching him before. He hadn’t recognized him, though. Had Romero—Oremor—had surgery? Perhaps added a glass eye at the very least? Neil would’ve picked up on the physical signs. Well, he _should_ have.

And not to mention the sister...

Oh.

Mother of Fucking Shit.

 _Lola_.

The remnants of a nightmare, drug induced hysteria. _Lola_.

That’s what he forgot, isn’t it? Lola was there, at the club. His drink, his water—

_They poisoned my water._

“The whole fucking time,” Neil whispers to no one but the breeze and a ruined body. “They’ve been here the _whole fucking time._ ”

He is going to _skin her alive_ and hang the tatters of her flesh on a fucking flagpole if his suspicions are confirmed right. Because if she’s here, if they’re the reason Kevin is missing— _“Oh god,”_ Neil’s going to be sick—if they’re the one who poisoned him and Andrew—

Fire alarms are loud, startling sources of panic. The scream that interrupts Neil’s train of thought is very similar to such, but he doesn’t feel the panic associated with the noise. Neil groans, frustrated with the interruption, and prepares himself for what’s coming.

As expected upon hearing the cry, he’s no longer the only one who has seen Nicky. There’s a group of runners up ahead, now stopped on the path. Someone’s bent over, retching; another is crying, holding on to the person next to them while the latter calls, presumably, 911. Well, good then. Makes Neil’s job a whole lot easier.

He slides the note and sheathed blade into the interior pocket of his blazer and can’t help but thank the insufferable universe once again that Andrew isn’t here. Neil knows the rubble of Andrew’s heart as well as his own, and he knows there’s not enough damage control in the world to bring back Andrew if the blonde found his cousin in such a state. Coupled with the message, the address… For all his posturing, Andrew feels emotion to an ungodly degree, acute and serrated and so very fragile. This faux-crucifixion wouldn’t bring Andrew back from hell. It would drag him there, kicking and screaming and burning with insurmountable grief.

Before the police or Lucifer himself can arrive, and faster than the people up ahead can possibly stop him, Neil turns to go find Andrew and does what he’s always done. What he always will do, because old habits die hard but angels like him fall harder. What he pretends he can avoid but everyone knows how the story goes by now.

Neil runs.

IV.

Andrew’s not panicking.

Even though Kevin’s dorm is empty. Even though Kevin’s not picking up Andrew’s calls. Even though Neil won’t _fucking text Andrew back_ for an update, Andrew’s not panicking.

He’s fuming.

 ** _From Danseuse:_** _Have u heard from NVX?_

 ** _From Danseuse:_** _J, I know ur awake. Answer ur phone._

 **_From Danseause : _ ** _It’s Code Black, J. Call NVX. ASAP._

 **_From Danseause : _ ** _Meet at WTHRSPR 10 min. 4th floor._

Andrew squeezes the small device in his hand, willing the metal to break in half. He doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.

Still no word from Neil.

When he punches in the long memorized number, Andrew already’s lighting his fourth cigarette of the day. Sorry, Dobson, but some vices can’t be helped. Desperate times, desperate measures, etcetera-etcetera. He makes the right turn outside the dorms and heads for the library.

Nevix picks up before the first ring has even trilled. “Fucking finally, Joseph. Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ll give you one guess,” Andrew growls. The sound of an ambulance or a police car breaks through the trees and Andrew groans.

“Your partner and I have been trying to contact you for the past half hour,” they continue as if Andrew hadn’t spoken. “Do you even understand the weight of a Code Black?”

“Just because I understand doesn’t mean I give a flying fuck about whatever waste of tax-dollars you’ve managed to burn up.” Andrew glares at a pair of freshman walking by and they quickly avert their curious gazes. “I have something more important I need to deal with.”

“More important than Kevin Day?”

The question stops Andrew in his tracks. Literally. He stumbles to a halt so quickly his feet slide on the snow-blanketed concrete. “Where,” Andrew says, so low Nevix has to hold their breath to hear, _“_ is he _.”_

Nevix’s tone is calm but it doesn't match their following words. “I need you to remember your contract, Joseph. Keep your family in mind when it comes to your response for what I’m about to say. Do you understand me?”

Andrew’s nostrils flare around the drag he sharply inhales. “Stop with the riddles, goddamn it. Where. The fuck. Is Day.”

There’s a pause and Nevix says, “We’ve made contact with the hunters.”

“I don’t have time for your fucking nicknames, _where is he.”_

 _“_ You’re still not listening.” Nevix’s voice becomes muffled and the sounds of them talking to someone nearby them can be heard, but Andrew can’t make out any particular words. “Hunters, Joseph. You’re the one who demanded we look into this. Don’t you remember?”

Andrew doesn’t respond, eyes boring into some invisible existence where he can strangle Nevix with his bare hands rather than figuratively over the phone.

“Well,” Nevix sighs, “you may get your bloodbath after all.

“Kevin’s gone, Joseph.”

•

The world hasn’t ended.

Andrew doesn’t understand how that’s possible.

“You have five seconds,” he whispers no louder than a dying breath, “to explain. Before I track you down and rip your bones from your fucking tendons one by one.”

Nevix doesn’t even try to disguise their frustration. “This is what I meant about minding your contract, J. Stop thinking with your dick for one moment and actually do your job—“

As if Andrew’s not been doing a job his whole fucking life.

“—and get to Witherspear like your partner told you. He’s not dead, Joseph. Not yet, at least. But we need you, and we need the soldier we hired you to be. Not an emotional train wreck.”

Liquid amber drips down Andrew’s throat until he’s petrified inside out from Nevix’s words. Cutting off his emotional instincts isn’t so much turning off a tap as its sipping bleach until everything he needs to remind himself he’s human burns away.

“Where. Is. He.”

“Drones reported corner of Gulf and Third as of two minutes ago. Looks like they’re stopped at a red light.” The sound of fingers tapping paints a clear image of Nevix on their laptop, no doubt connecting with OCRA’S private satellite transmission.

Andrew tells himself to start walking. Somehow, his legs obey him. “ _They_?”

Another sigh as if preparing for the inevitable. “Lola Malcolm and Romero Malcolm have him.”

“ _Fucking_ —“

“He’s alive, Joseph, I promise. His vitals are steady—“

Andrew hurls the device to the pavement and crunches the metal under his boot to the tune of garbled feedback. He _warned_ them—

“Andrew!”

The sound of Neil’s voice pulls Andrew closer to the surface. It’s not enough to drag him all the way from the depths, but he thinks he’s breathing rather than choking.

Neil must have come straight from Wreck. His hair is plastered to his forehead, sweat mingling with freezing red cheeks as he runs like the damned fox he is toward Andrew, red and raging in the wind. He’s calling Andrew’s name and it’s all Andrew can do to latch on to that one anchor, fearful if he lets go Nevix’s words will sink him for evermore.

 _Kevin's gone, Joseph._ The words replay in time with Neil’s shouts. It’s the song of the damned. Ending life, ending breath— _ending_ , over and over and over again.

And this time, Andrew knows its not the effects of a drug-induced comedown when he stumbles forward to meet Neil only to crumple at the last second, Neil’s arms the only relief from the world and her fatal conclusions. 

_“Neil—“_

When Neil pulls Andrew to himself, Andrew thinks he should be moving, should be calling the calvary to charge on Gulf and Third, to be running to Witherspear and rallying an army to get back Kevin. He thinks he shouldn’t be clutching so desperately as he is to Neil. Since when did the emotionally petrified become so petrified? He’s focusing on the wrong things. Like the color of Neil’s eyes, boring into Andrew’s and asking a thousand questions Andrew doesn’t know the answer to. Like the texture of Neil’s hands, not restraining Andrew from Neil but restraining Andrew from himself. He thinks he should be focusing on the world around him before it ends, before the air in his lungs comes crashing down.

But all he sees,

All he feels,

All he tastes,

  
All he knows—

Is ash.

* * *

**[incredible artist: RJ, @redskiesandsailboats on tumblr and ao3](https://redskiesandsailboats.tumblr.com)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAN WE ALL JUST GIVE RJ THE BIGGEST VIRTUAL HUG AND WORSHIP SERVICE I MEAN!!! RJ UR ART IS E V E R Y T H I N G I cannot get OVER IT omG LIKE NOOSE!! every time I look at it I start to tear up I love u so much words cannot express my adoration for u. please please check out rj’s other work on tumblr the talent is unreal. 
> 
> The poem Neil finds is an original work and only exists within the bounds of titwtwe
> 
> yall we only have like,, three-ish?? three to five chapters to go omg
> 
> References to:  
> Audre lorde  
> If We Were Villians by ML Rio
> 
> Chapter Title from Miley Cyrus' song Angels Like You
> 
> "hylam vocas" means "you are calling hylas,” a latin phrase that references the story of Hercules and Hylas, a companion of Hercules. A siren lured Hylas into the sea on one of their voyages, and Hercules didn’t realize his friend was missing and drowned under the depths until it was too late. Hercules called out for Hylas for hours on end, his efforts of course being in vain. Hylam vocas is a form of dramatic irony then to mean doing something in vain, specifically reaching out to someone you don't realize can never reach for you back.
> 
> Translations  
> Deine Hand, your hand.  
> Hör mir zu, verdammt. listen to me damn it  
> C'est la seule explication. It’s the only explanation


	25. There's No Plan, There's No Kingdom To Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Longing, of course, became its own object, the way that desire can make anything into a god.”  
> ~Mark Doty, The Death of Antinoüs
> 
> “How desire is a thing I might die for. Longing, a well, a long dark throat. Enter any body of water and you give yourself up to be swallowed…How easily I could forget you as separate, so essential you feel to me now…You a spring I return to, unquenchable, and drink.”  
> ~Leila Chatti, ‘After Touching You, I Think of Narcissus Drowning’
> 
> “Desire to us  
> Was like a double death,  
> Swift dying  
> Of our mingled breath”  
> ~Langston Hughes, Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this and the next chapter are not beta'd, I apologize in advance for any typos/mistakes. thank u so so much for reading!!
> 
> cw: continued themes and more: lots and lots of blood, gore, graphic torture and allusions to such involving violence to the face and entire body; honestly this chapter is just graphic af, definitely worst violence wise so far, so if you believe you will need more in depth tw’s or just want this chapter summarized, plz feel free to reach out to me on tumblr @ ravens-play-exy-too and that goes for any type of content you feel you'd like more info/warning to. also if anything u want specifically mentioned in the cw that I have not done, plz lmk I am more than happy to mention it. 
> 
> happy tuesday y'all!!!

I.

Ten and a half minutes later, the world is still spinning.

The sun is still weeping.

The birds are still screaming.

But classes have been cancelled. That’s quite the development.

Because—

_Nicholas Hemmick is dead._

That’s what Yasmin Karimi is whispering to her two friends while they wait for their orders of chamomile—hold the sugar—tea outside Roosts.

_He hung himself at Noose._

That’s what Darian Melik is crying to the EMT, as astute of an account as the so called eyewitness they are can provide.

_—No, someone murdered him._

That’s what Charlie Vanderhall is interrupting Darian with, pointing at the damned tree where Nicky’s body has been moved from via ambulance as if nature itself is at fault for what has occurred. Though, that wouldn’t be too far off. Nature is always at fault for every petty and extreme motion of the stars. Nature, always creating. Always destroying. Always ending.

 _Deep breaths, dear. Keep in mind:_ attempted _murder. There’s a difference. Everything will be alright._

That’s what Lisa Dawncreek is reminding the students in front of her. She’s seen enough of this shit to last a lifetime over, yet life has decided it has not seen enough of her. She’ll never forget the day when, months before on an early autumn morning, she zipped another Foxborough student into a body bag. He’d been nearly the same age as this last one. No one could find reason for all the dead boys in this end of South Carolina. As if the school had been cursed, it’s students the fatal spell.

_Not dead. Yet._

That’s what Emerson Moore makes note of sitting in the back of the ambulance with the mangled man laying next to him. The oxygen mask seated over the victim’s face works overtime. He’s unconscious and barely in one piece. But he’s still breathing. Still alive. And while not much, it may be enough. For now.

_Am I dead, am I dead, have you not killed me yet?_

That’s what rages in Kevin Day’s mind, subconsciousness winning the battle over the conscious. The words of a memory, the plea of a dream. On repeat in his mind like a scratched record as it reaches for coherency in the tangle of dark and thorns around him. His mind’s awake but his body’s never been more asleep, lost to the whims of a trichloromethane substance that’s invaded all aspects of his very being. Being tied and thrown in the back of a trunk is all jokes and games until it’s not. Until you’re the one fighting for life and lungs and the little hope you have left before its inevitably buried six feet under.

_I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them all, I’ll kill them in death if I must._

That’s what Nathaniel-Call-Me-By-My-Other-Name-Wesninski vows to himself as he and Andrew run up the stairs to Witherspear’s fourth floor. He takes two at a time, lunging for three but tripping when he overextends so settles back for two. His thoughts, so achingly similar to Andrew’s yet so cataclysmically his own. He touches the air above Andrew’s shoulder the second before the blonde swings open the door and into the beyond. He wants to say, _Wait_. He wants to say, _You’re not alone._ _We need not be ever let alone._ He wants to say, _I’ll run for the hills if you ask me to but I won’t go until he’s back with you._ But he says nothing and the slightest of pauses Andrew had granted as if he were connected by some string to Neil’s soul wavers back into motion, tagging once more in the direction tethered to their third.

_Oh, he’s going to kill me now. Goodbye cruel world, it’s been everything but a pleasure._

That’s what Katelyn Novikoff comes to terms with as Andrew Minyard storms into the room, the fox following close on his heels. There’s no mistaking the fury and unrepressed hatred burning a black hole into the library’s sunlit alcove that accompanies the OCRA agent’s presence.

“Get out,” Andrew growls. He doesn’t bother slinging off his coat but instead grabs an empty chair and flings it further than a man of his height should be able. The wooden seat crashes into the wall with an anti-climactic bang and falls uselessly to the marble floor on its side.

“What exactly was the purpose of that?” Katelyn wonders, unimpressed.

“I will _not_ repeat myself.” Andrew’s low hiss could frighten hardened marines into action but Katelyn remains comfortable in the bay window they’re sat. “This floor is reserved for the next hour. _Leave_.”

“Technically, that counts as repetition.” When Andrew’s hand moves, presumably for a knife or a fistfight, the door opens once more and Renee Walker stumbles through with a mountain behind her. The mountain smiles and waves around and then, upon reading the room, takes a step back.

“I think he’s angry,” Matthew Boyd whisper-shouts to Renee.

“I think you’re right.” Renee smiles apologetically at Andrew.

And Neil thinks he hasn’t had enough coffee for the nuclear bomb about to erupt.

The whiteness of Andrew’s face doesn’t exactly pale, but rather adopts a shade closer to that of spoiled milk than porcelain doll. He looks between his partner and Boyd before slowly rounding on Katelyn, who’s busy texting something into their phone.

His voice is steady, too steady, when he says, “You are not Nevix.”

Tap-tap-tap. Katelyn’s nails bounce up and down.

Backspace.

Tap-tap-tappity-tap-tap.

They don’t bother looking up from the device. “If you mean in regards to what’s on my birth certificate, then yes, you’d be right. And to that I’d say, ‘You are not Joseph.’ Mmhm?”

Tap-tap-tap. Tappity—

“Motherfucker,” Andrew whispers. The dagger is dislodged in half a breath, Renee around his chest in the next. Andrew goes for a kick—a cheap shot and they both know it—but she’s faster than him and dodges to the side, pinning both his arms back using the momentum of the motion.

“Renee,” Andrew starts.

“Andrew,” she returns.

“And I’m Matt,” Matt says with a small clap. “Now that we’re all introduced, let’s get down to business.”

Katelyn hums something suspiciously like a Disney song and Andrew struggles to break free of Renee’s hold. Neil has to take a seat. He drops his backpack under a desk and sighs. His head is pounding and the combination of Katelyn’s incessant typing—really, do nails have to make that much noise against plastic?—and the trio’s collective clusterfuckery is really too much for a Monday morning. As much as he’s bound to Andrew, it’s almost a little ridiculous Neil pieced together Nevix’s identity before the blonde. Ever since Katelyn left that note, the truth had been clear as glass. Fractured, bloody glass.

So if he doesn’t start hearing answers and battle strategy _now_ he’ll go finish this himself if he must. “I second that."

“Yes, thank you, Matt,” Katelyn says and finally lifts their head to survey the other four. They don’t acknowledge the hold Renee’s got Andrew in, nor the shit-eating smile gracing Matt’s features, nor even the _I’m-so-done-with-this-shit_ expression on Neil’s.

Typical Monday, right?

Instead, Katelyn pops a bubble of cherry gum and says, “Well, then. Welcome to the end, agents. As you all now know, I am Nevix or, Vixen, The Organization for Criminal Response and Activities head of handling at Foxborough Academy.” Renee and Matt don’t blink, so it’s obvious the spiel is more for Andrew and Neil’s benefit. “You are all here today because of the Code Black that has been issued in response to Kevin Day’s disappearance.”

“Before I get any further in today’s agenda,” they continue, as if this is some town hall or book club meeting for homicidal university students, “I would first like to thank Danseuse and Matthew for all their hard work in helping us get this far in the mission. Congratulations, gang. Operation Family Reunion is officially in full swing.”

II.

Neil watches Andrew deflate in Renee’s hold even before Katelyn has finished speaking.

Well, deflate is the wrong word. Deflate is like a balloon, like all the air and hope has left. But Andrew never had any hope to start with. Instead, his muscles and joints stiffen before halting altogether in his struggle against Renee.

Renee’s eyes close and she lays her forehead against the back of Andrew’s neck. “Andrew, let us explain. I promise it’s not what—“

“Your promise means nothing,” Neil cuts in and his interruption surprises them all. Four heads turn his way and he flushes under the scrutiny. But only Andrew’s blank, haunted eyes mean anything right now. “Let him go. And either get on with the speech or give me the keys to the nearest vehicle that can get me to Columbia because I don’t have time for this.” Her hands drop after a moment but Andrew doesn’t move.

“We,” Matt adds not unkindly. “You’re not the only one with an interest in getting Kevin back.”

“Say his name one more time,” Neil returns and the seriousness in his gaze sobers Matt. Neither is a man to back down from the bigger dog but Matt averts his gaze all the same. “You don’t have the right, Boyd.”

“Nath-Neil, I care about Kevin just as much as you,” Matt says. He’s either dumb or brave, or a very lot of both. “I can’t— _won’t_ lose another friend.“

Neil stands before Matt’s even finished talking and disengages his own blade, the Ka-Bar from his left hip. For some reason, no one tries to stop him but he doesn’t complain. Walking up until he’s chest to head with the other man, he extends the knife until its tip circles the left of Matt’s clothed chest, right below the heart. The blade edge travels slowly upward until resting on top of the organ, only skin and sinew and silk separating knife from nous.

Matt doesn’t stop Neil. He doesn’t step back, nor does he protest. He simply waits with bated breath and wonders what it would be like to kneel for this New King. Ichirou may be cruel, but Neil has something even more powerful up his sleeve: the rest of his humanity hanging on the line. And a monster with everything to lose is much more frightening than a monster with nothing. Because the first kind of monster can be made desperate, and those who are desperate will do whatever it takes to no longer feel that way.

“You wouldn’t know how to care for another person without a contract hanging between you if your fucking life depended on it,” Neil says so calmly Matt almost believes his tone. “Do not lie to me and pretend otherwise. Kevin Day is not simply an _interest_ of mine to get back. He is a _necessity_. Sine qua non, Matthew. Do you understand me? Without Kevin Day, there is nothing but those who thirst in a desert devoid of reprieve.”

The knife’s edge halts at the base of Matt’s uncovered sternum, tip pressing just enough for a drop of blood to rise to the surface. Renee shifts in Neil’s periphery, hand reaching for her own hip, but Katelyn stops her with a hand held out.

“The only interest of mine,” Neil whispers, “is stringing the bastards who took him up by their throats and hanging them for all the ravens and vultures to feast.” The knife presses further, drawing more blood and yet still no reaction from the man. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” Matt sighs a breath of relief when Neil steps back, only for Neil to reach forward once more and place his finger over the bubble of blood at Matt’s throat. Sliding the digit until the drop is fully smudged off, Neil sucks the blood-stained finger into his mouth, the ghost of a smile hinting at his contorted lips when Matt’s eyes narrow.

“Someone tell me—“ Andrew’s low tone pulls all their attention once more back his way—“whatever the fuck it is that I’m apparently missing, before I hang each and every one of you myself.”

“What,” Katelyn claps their hands together, “an excellent idea. May as well take a seat everyone. Some of us may want to be sitting down for this.

“And don’t worry about deadlines,” they wave any invisible protests aside. “We have all the time in the world. Er, what’s left of it. The retrieval team won’t fly in to Columbia for at least another four hours, give or take a bit, and our lovely Kevin has at least two before he arrives in hell.

“So.” Kateylyn clears their throat. “Allow me to set the scene.”

To Andrew’s complete and utter lack of surprise, the truth is worse than he could possibly expect. Over the course of a half hour that feels like ten, Katelyn, Matthew, and Renee explain in bits and pieces the operation that has been in both the planning and execution stage over the past few months. He sees red every time Katelyn—Nevix, he has to remind himself and its a holy pain—opens their mouth to speak but nothing can be done for that. Who would’ve guessed Aaron’s obnoxiously loud and obnoxiously confident partner would be Andrew’s government assigned _handler_?

And Matthew Boyd of all people is none other than a Family rat sent out with the sole purpose of watching Kevin and reporting back to HQ. Which, really, is the exact same thing Andrew’s doing, but at least Andrew has _dignity_. OCRA may be an ass-wipe but it’s not the goddamn wings of Lucifer herself.

According to his handler, OCRA’s had their sights on the suspected Malcolms long before Andrew was certain of their identity. It was only recently that OCRA agreed to partner with The Family in the aims of taking out the Russian siblings, who’ve been a drain on both entities ever since the Malcolms decided to pull together the scraps of the late Butcher’s empire. Nevix went so far as to install tracking devices on the Malcolm’s car, including a few fakes—Stooges—in the scenario that one of the siblings preemptively discovered the devices.

“And you just happened to know they’d try to make an escape?” Andrew cuts in at one point. “How convenient.”

Nevix ignores the sarcasm. “We did, actually. That’s the whole purpose of using bait.”

 _“_ What bait.”

“Kevin,” Neil says no louder than a whisper before the other red-head can answer. Where one would normally fall slack at such a horror, Andrew solidifies like statue even more. “OCRA knew the Malcolms would take Kevin at some point. All they had to do was lay the trap and wait with loaded arms for them to strike. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Nevix nods. “All except for one thing. It was either going to be Kevin...Or you. It was only a matter of time before we found out which they’d pick.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” Matt murmurs from his seat near the door. He seems to have chosen the sensible option of staying as far away from the other four assassins as possible. “Taking Neil—that I get. No offense.” He smiles apologetically. “He’s the Butcher’s son, the heir, yeah? Checks out. But Kevin? What the hell would they have to gain?” He’d had all his money on the Malcolms snatching Neil. It’s a good thing OCRA insisted on all variables.

“Leverage,” Neil answers easily. “They don’t need to take me by force. They know I’ll come willingly.”

“Why?” Matt wonders like it’s not obvious. But it is. It’s more than obvious.

A man with everything to lose.

“Why do moths seek the flame?” Neil shoots back. “I’m not here to reason existence with you.”

At that, Matthew quiets and looks away and Renee blinks once, twice, before frowning in sympathy.

And as for the ex-Black Swan…

“You knew about all this.” It’s not a question but cold-blooded acceptance.

Renee dips her chin from her seat next to Andrew’s. He won’t look at her but she knows all the same for whom the words are intended. She doesn’t attempt to justify nor even defend herself. The truth of the matter is that she only knew about half as much as Katelyn and Matt until very recently. Her mission to make certain that Andrew did not realize the extent of OCRA’s ties with the Family or plans for Kevin went, for all intents and purposes, as well as could be expected. Even if it cost her Andrew’s respect.

His trust.

“And you knew of the Malcolm’s. Before I.”

“I did.”

Andrew’s slow nod as his gaze shifts inward sends Renee’s stomach dropping. It’s not just anger in Andrew’s clenched knuckles, his tensed jaw. It’s something more. Something deeper Renee’s never encountered with Andrew before. Something most people don’t think Andrew’s capable of possessing in any recognizable fashion.

He’s disappointed.

Whether that be in Renee or his life or whatever sorry excuse for an undercover op this is, Andrew, of all things, is disappointed. The sullen droop of his shoulders, his flat face lasts for nothing but a few seconds. But many things can happen in such short a time. One could fall in love in three seconds. Down a shot of liquid grief in two. Fall from such great heights in one. In only a handful, Andrew experiences the full spectrum of human emotion and each is worst than the last before its all inevitably clawed back under the tarp of his stone wall.

As sick and wretched of a sight it is, Renee can’t find the right words to apologize. Possibly, none such exist. What’s done is done and everyone knows the old wives’ tale: to mourn a mischief that is past and gone is the next way to draw new mischief on.

 _No more games, only action_ is what she tells herself to reconcile the regret. Her pain is her penance, the loss of a friend her contrition. _I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you,_ she would tell Andrew in another life. _But more sorry for all that I have not._

Neil meets Renee’s eyes from where he’s moved near the bay window to replace Katelyn, backpack back on as if it’s armor, as if he’s ready to run at any moment. Opting to still stand rather than sit, the look he sends her is unfiltered malice. A look that should reflect Andrew’s internal resentment except Neil doesn’t bother with any feelings of betrayal. For him, there was never any trust to begin with. It’s an even peculiar sort of animosity in his eyes because it so nearly resembles the face he sees in the mirror. A look that says _I hate you_ because _I am so like you._

In a circle of sinners, no one’s better than the next. Only a million jagged shards of glass reflecting each other for eternity back.

“Why,” Andrew has to know, because worst of all he is the only one who does not, “wait.”

Nevix quirks a brow but it’s Renee who understands first. She clears her throat, shooting Nevix a warning look. “Lord Ichirou wants them all dead. Every last link to the Butcher’s line. The Malcolms, their sympathizers…everyone.”

Neil grimaces and Andrew isn’t far off. The reminder that they’re forced to work with the Moriyama’s sits as well in their gut as lukewarm chlorine. The irony of whom the two forces, OCRA and the Family, are working to save is lost on no one but the wind.

At Renee’s words, Matt catches on to Andrew’s question and nods his head in agreement. “We had to use Kev-uh, bait, if you will, to lure the Malcolms and their supporters out. Family’s been watching the numbers. This past week alone, almost thirty of the Butcher’s original inside circle have arrived in Columbia due to the rumors of a—“ Matt’s eyes shoot to Neil—“well, as our insiders heard it, ‘a prince coming home'.”

“We never would have had the opportunity to take out so many without letting the Malcolms think they were ahead,” Nevix adds. “They think they’re subtle; they think they’re strong. Rome was strong too.”

“All kingdoms must fall,” Renee finishes.

Neil snorts.

“Any other revelations.” Andrew’s flat-uttered askance has four pairs of eyes pin-balling against the next. Neil’s conscience guiltily whispers _Nicky_ so he crushes Jiminy with a metaphorical sledgehammer. Boyd, meanwhile, mourns the memory of a ghost, the ghost of a memory. Renee’s about to throw her last chip in because, honestly? Why the hell not at this point. But Katelyn’s phone buzzes once more and the agent jumps to their feet in earnest.

“At least a hundred if not more, my dear,” they chirp, “but looks like we’re out of time.”

Neil crosses his arms. “You said we had hours.”

“Never believe the first thing you hear,” Katelyn huffs. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”

“My mother taught me how to hot-wire cars and stitch a stab wound.”

“Well,” the agent deadpans, “at least one of those things may come in handy. Everyone knows hot-wiring is outdated.” They tap something on their screen before sliding their chair back under the desk. “Headquarter’s confirmed new sightings on the getaway vehicle. There’s been a shift in the car’s M.O., but still on track for Columbia as of now.”

“The address.” Neil’s hand goes for his blazer pocket. The sheathed blade makes contact with his hand momentarily before he slides out the folded page. Andrew’s gaze lingers on the fabric as if seeing through Neil’s hesitation, though he makes no further comment. “Romero Malcolm left a message.”

Pin-balls again, now four sets of eyes on him. Katelyn’s lips part.

“What?” Neil demands.

“A mess…Romero left you—“ The handler’s eye twitches. “Khristos. You’re _just_ now sharing this?”

“When I said any other revelations,” Andrew growls, leaning forward, “you were not off the hook, _Fuchs_.”

Neil doesn’t resist the temptation to roll his eyes and allows Katelyn to yank the paper out of his hands. “In all fairness, they _were_ kind of an a roll. Sue me for not interrupting, which—“ Neil gestures at Katelyn—“if you remember, they already did.

Andrew’s mouth thins. “I do not like excuses.”

“Just _read_ the damn thing,” Neil groans.

“I see the honeymoon phase is over,” Matt pipes up for no godly reason. “What’s next? Marriage counseling?”

The only thing that saves Matt’s neck from being intimately acquainted with both Andrew’s and Neil’s dagger collection is Katelyn’s interjection. “This is from the book I gave you,” they direct at Neil, more rhetorically than not.

Neil nods. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

Katelyn doesn't deem the comment a response. “So how the hell did Romero get this?” They wave the torn paper at him.

“I gave it to Kev last night,” Neil shrugs. “The book, I mean. He’d asked to borrow it, reminded him of his mum or something.” It’s all he offers and thank fuck everyone must be too overwhelmed with the day’s events because no one calls out the bullshit that is Neil’s half-assed side-step. Because that’s no explanation for just how Neil got ahold of the paper once more. But it must be enough for Katelyn because they only sigh in acquittance. Neil would rather Nicky not die, but seeing as there’s nothing more that Neil can do about the misfortune, Neil’d also rather not mention in front of Andrew his cousin’s situation until all is dealt with. They have enough on their plate as it is.

When Neil looks to Andrew, Andrew’s sharp gaze is too familiar. Turns out the blonde isn’t as susceptible to lies, even that of omission. Neil doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. This has been the game they’ve played since day one.

_We don’t have the privilege of discretion anymore_

Forgive me, Neil thinks. And if you can’t forgive, forget me.

“Neil—“ Andrew starts.

“You’re lucky we already locked this address in our system,” Katelyn interrupts. “Joseph has a point. Anything else to share with the class, Nathaniel?”

“My name is _Neil_ and can we, for the love of hell, stop with the nicknames? No,” Neil says to the only one in the room who matters, mirror reflecting glass, “there’s nothing else.”

One last lie, for old time’s sake?

Andrew closes his eyes.

“If that’s all then—“ Katelyn gestures to Renee and Andrew—“our ride is here. Boss wants us for backup in case retrieval goes south.”

“What can you three possibly do with a mob house?” Matt wonders.

“You forget, Matthew,” Katelyn turns to him, “that you’re not the only one born for blood in this room.”

Andrew cracks his knuckles. Fucking Ngoek. Always an impromptu change in plans. But if this will get him closer, faster to Kevin, closer, faster to dragging out whatever last poisonous thread Neil has swallowed, Andrew won’t put up a fight. Fuck, he’ll _bring_ the fight, all rapture and ruin.

“Hold up.” Neil extends his hand. “You’re not implying I’m staying here. I _know_ that’s not what I just heard.”

“You’re right,” Katelyn breathes. “I’m not implying. I’m ordering. And it’s you _and_ Matthew. I don’t have time to babysit, and Matthew has not been ordered to Columbia.”

Neil’s brows raise and the pure mix of shock and rage in the expression could almost warm Andrew’s cold shriveled heart. “You _fucking_ —“

“Hatford-Josten-whateverthefuckyougyby,” Katelyn cuts in, “this is not your role to play. Kevin was bait and you’re the hook. Now it’s time you let the sharks do their job.”

“Who’s the shark in that meta—“ Matt stops himself at Katelyn’s scathing look. “Right, never mind. Good talk.”

“Listen,” Katelyn adds to Neil, more earnest. “I know he’s important to you. You may think I’m full of shit, but Kevin’s important to us all and we _will get him back,_ ” they rush to say when Neil goes to fire back. “Alive and in as full of a piece as he left.

“This trap is for the Malcolm’s, yeah? You said it yourself: they’re expecting you to come. _You’re_ who they want to wrap their bloody paws around. If you come with us to Columbia, you’d only be playing into _their_ trap.” At this, Neil’s mouth shuts and he sighs a heavy breath of frustration.

“You’re a soldier,” they stress. “So you know what I mean when I say choose your battles carefully. We _will_ get Kevin Day back.” Their eyes pierce into Neil’s before moving seriously over to Andrew’s, who juts his chin out. The _to you both_ is left unsaid, but Neil doesn’t think he’s imagining the truth ringing throughout the room.

“But not at the cost,” Katelyn ends, “of losing you.”

“If I could get any more stupid I’d think you might actually care about me,” Neil snipes. “What a world that would be.”

Katelyn’s eyes roll. “Good thing neither of what you said is possible.” Neil smirks. It’s not friendly. “Jo—Andrew, knock some sense into him before I do. He can’t come to Columbia and we both know it.”

Andrew’s glare could melt the hands of Midas. “I am not his keeper.”

“The hell you are.” But Katelyn throws their hands up in frustration. “Danseuse, Joseph, van’s parked in Lot B. You have ten minutes to get some real clothes on and I trust that you’ll arm yourselves appropriately.” The first statement is directed at the state of Andrew’s rumpled sleep clothes and wrinkled overcoat. “Do _not_ be late. And Matthew—“ they crook their thumb at Neil—“In no way are you to let Public Enemy number four out of your sight.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Matt mutters. To Neil, “Who’s the first three?” Neil gestures in bewilderment. When Katelyn turns around, Neil’s hand goes for his belt holster but Andrew’s feather light touch stops him.

“Schwarz Toyota Grandia,” Andrew murmurs, low enough for only Neil to hear. “Twenty-seventeen. And,” he crooks a finger under Neil’s jaw, tilting Neil’s gaze directly into Andrew’s, “Du wirst mir die Wahrheit sagen when this is over.”

Without waiting for a response, he turns and follows Renee and his handler out the door. He doesn’t linger with unnecessary glances nor pause to look into the cold dirty well of Neil’s eyes as if seeking some long lost fortune. Maybe it’s because Andrew doesn’t trust himself to climb out once he’s fallen in, or maybe because they both know this isn’t the end. They’re not the sentimental sort and Neil watches Andrew leave with the same confidence as the Second Coming. Watching Andrew’s backside ripple with tension and frayed nerve, long coat pulled around strained shoulders, Neil thinks that maybe things never end, not truly; that every skip and trip and stone dead stop is really just the bridge for Something Else, the interruption before the resumption, the next act of the play of life. Maybe everything is always beginning, always starting over, always always always.

Or maybe Neil’s not as detached from his heart as he thought because he’s still watching Andrew’s back when the man disappears from sight. Neil looks on because Andrew can’t look back and maybe, somewhere in the middle of it all, someone else waits to drag them both back into orbit.

Neil exhales soundlessly when the oaken door slams shut on the trio’s way out.

“I hope to hell,” Matt says, moving with crossed arms to face Neil and somehow never permanently deterred by Neil’s presence, “you have a plan, Hatford. ‘Cause I can’t promise one of us not blowing the other’s brain out if we have to stay glued together all day.”

Neil’s slow grin is all blister and callous. “Look’s like it’s your lucky day, then. How do you feel about road trips?”

III.

The motor of an engine.

Revving.

Shadows, pulsing behind closed eyelids.

Waking.

The acceleration of a wheel, of a heart, growing closer and closer to its destination with every harrowing second.

Something starts then. Over and over again.

 _“Velocity is the derivative of position, that first motion of a particle. Acceleration is that to velocity, just another change, another phase of movement.”_ Neil’s voice is in Kevin’s head but Kevin’s head is cracked open, spilling old words onto linoleum paper.

 _“We’re all particles if you think about it. Barely a speck of dust in the eyes of history. Constantly moving, constantly changing.”_ Kevin’s not listening, though. His eyes are on Neil’s lips, attention torn asunder even in a dream. Neil’s chewing around the cap of his pen and Kevin wishes it were his fingers Neil heeded instead, the very ventricles of his heart. There’s a low laugh from the shadows that’s not quite kind but neither cruel. Andrew’s just as affected, isn’t he?

_“Never complacent with what was or what will be. Progress is just a trick of the mind, you know. An illusion of movement forward when really we’re all spinning in circles thinking that we’re making a difference. We’re the summation of everything that has come before. The integral of what lay ahead.”_

It makes no sense. Or maybe it does. What else are dreams but the recollections of a misplaced youth? Kevin’s not supposed to understand dreams or math so he doesn’t try, focusing on the whites of Neil’s and Andrew’s eyes beckoning him home.

 _“What do you make of progress, Kevin?”_ Neil’s asking. _“What trick is that for which you are heading?”_

 _“You don’t sound like you,”_ Kevin laughs. He wants to say something else but the particles overwhelm.

 _“He’s become complacent,”_ Andrew says. It sounds like the bruises.

Because Kevin’s lungs are swelling and Andrew’s saying, _Pause_ , and Neil is laughing, _Promise_ , and for the first time Kevin thinks that’s he woken up to a nightmare. He’s not quite awake, though too much alive. Too aware of his hammered heart as much trapped in his chest as he’s trapped in a trunk.

 _Trunk_ , Kevin’s mind screams. Like the bark of a tree, like the roots of a giant. Like the soul of a dryad petrified in oak to wither until the end of time.

The shadows swarm.

•

“This isn’t going to work,” Matt says.

Neil rolls his eyes. “Don’t you trust me?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“Which necessitates a stupid answer.”

Matt sighs at Neil’s waiting expression. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“So?"

“So…Yes. Well, uh, _no_. But yes.”

“Great choice. Now hop in.”

•

_“Razbudi.”_

The words are molten tar and Kevin sludges forward in the dream. He grasps out blindly before realizing his arms won’t move, constrained in some invisible bonds too tough to break. His head pounds, tongue cotton-thick, and he flinches at the sound of a cuckoo’s screams.

Gasping, he awakes.

•

Nevix takes the driver’s seat.

Renee climbs into the second row.

Andrew opens the trunk.

 _This will end in flames,_ he thinks confidently.

He throws the bags in. Five in total: three for weapons, two for travel. You never know when you’ll have to stay the night someplace else. And just for the hell of it, he huffs the ammunitions bag with slightly more force than necessary on top of the crouching figures.

Right before he slams the van’s rear split doors closed, Neil shoots Andrew a double thumbs up.

_And I’m dragging you with me._

•

Twelve cries. One after the other.

Cuck- _oo_. Cuck- _oo_. Cuck- _oo_.

Kevin thinks he’ll never own a watch again.

The cuckoo clock isn’t even in the same room as him, but the piercing rounds shoot like arrows at Kevin’s psyche. He’s sick of the repetitive chime ringing in tandem with his headache.

Needless to say, he doesn’t know where he is. The room is large, round and wide like it could have once hosted extravagant balls or petty galas. The floor-to-ceilings windows are dressed and hidden behind dusty drapes and construction scaffolding. It’s hard to make out any more than that in the barely illuminated room, save for the sparse sources of light coming from a few miscellaneous wall sconces, oddly in use as if forgotten when everything else was turned off.

Whatever or whoever had woken him is long gone. At one point he heard the sound of voices, two or three distinct pitches from the other side of the doors leading out of the room. Laughter, awhile back. Now, quiet murmurings in a language he can’t speak. Maybe it’s guards or oblivious civilians or…

Kevin shudders.

Or Family.

The final bellow from the cuckoo clock reverberates in his ears and Kevin sags in the wooden chair his wrist and ankles are bound to. Whoever’s in charge of this affair didn’t bother to tape his mouth, but Kevin hasn’t found the courage to call out. In every possible scenario he runs through his mind, none possibly end with the people outside the door rescuing him.

But for such a grim, if cliche, setting, Kevin’s uncomfortably…comfortable with his current position. Not the goddamn hostage situation—and _my god_ , Kevin thinks for the hundredth time. _Am I really a_ hostage _?_ —but the chair itself is surprisingly pleasant to sit in. The walnut wood is sanded and glossed; it’s Victorian padding straight from the whims of a Cézanne.He can’t distinguish any telling embroidery patterns in the cushion’s seat when he fidgets, but there’s no doubt that wherever he is, the owners have taste.

Probably the wrong thing to be focused on, considering the circumstances. Especially when said cushioning may very well be soon soaked and forever ruined with Kevin’s blood—

 _Stop it,_ something tells Kevin, and it almost sounds familiar. Like his mortal lungs, like his desperate hands, like two gods who may as well be on the other side of the ocean.

It could be noon or midnight; there’s no way to tell with the closed curtains. With the throbbing in his head and overall body aches he wouldn’t be surprised to learn if it were the latter. He feels like he’s run a marathon without the running, been crushed between the throngs of warfare without the fighting, been damaged beyond repair without the noble sacrifice.

It’s more psychological than anything. Kevin wonders if this is what who’s taken him has planned. To wear down his mind and then his body. To pierce the soul and then the flesh. To ravage all hope before themuscled heart.

Another shudder.

_There’s worse than this._

It’s what he’d always reminded himself when Riko controlled his life, when the Moriyama’s held a lease on his very DNA. _There’s always worse than this._ When his bones shattered, free will on fire. _There could_ always _be worse than this._ Holding the keys to Hades, flirting with the reaper. A one night stand with death.

 _But what if,_ another voice, different from the last, _what if this is_ all _there is?_

 _It isn’t_ , Kevin insists. Because he has to. Because he hopes what he believes is true. Hope is the very last thing you lose when the end is near, and Kevin has too much at stake.

_This can’t be how it ends._

IV.

“Extraction team on the west border…”

_“Walking on a dream, how can I explain?”_

“…Eighty-three miles…”

_“Talking to myself, will I see again?”_

“…message ten minutes ago…”

_“We are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it—“_

“…Joseph, stop eating so much…yourself sick…get there.”

Sentence fragments filter in and out of Neil’s hearing. The jostle of metal on road, of bags filled with weaponry and god-knows-what-else rubbing against each other, of some migraine-inducing pop song playing on the radio while Renee hums along all coalesce into one new torment. It’s not the man’s ideal mode of travel, but beggars can’t be choosers.

 _“Is it reeeaaal now?_ ” Renee’s bright voice sings along to the voice in the song box. _“Two people become one.”_

“Stick to dance,” Andrew mutters. The rustle of another bag, plastic rather than cloth, breaks in from the front of the van. Chips? Neil wonders. He could go for some Doritos.

“Leave her alone,” Katelyn says before the radio’s volume is turned up. Whatever following retort, if there is one, is drowned out by the sounds of Katelyn’s and Renee’s voice joining together to the music.

Matt starts humming along where his face is squashed against Neil’s knees. It’s cramped. But he stops immediately at Neil’s following kick.

The ride passes. It’s all going relatively well, if you can count the off-key screeching from Katelyn and Renee or the constant tension in every one of Andrew’s bones coiled up and ready to strike _well_. Andrew’s never done _well_ in cars for long. That’s why he’s spent so much time in them, especially before he came to Foxborough, mindlessly driving around and half-praying he’d be the lucky fuck to encounter a drunk driver, or a sudden tree that he couldn’t miss. Just so the End couldn’t be pinned on him. Just so even his death could have a scapegoat.

At one point it gets worse, but that’s the nature of wellness: a cycle of good to ugly to bearable again, with only the fractured displeasures to prove the opposite exists. Andrew’s phone rings, the one that’s not his burner. He takes one glance at the caller ID, pretends to consider, before shoving the unanswered device back into his pocket. If it’s not Kevin or his suit of a boss, it’s not worth the time. Not now.

Seconds later, Nevix’s phone vibrates where it lay on the console. Andrew huffs a breath through his nostrils.

“Just let it ring,” they mutter. And if the man in the back didn’t know better, he’d almost say they sounded regretful. “He’s probably just asking about lunch.”

“My brother asks about a lot of things.” Andrew’s retort is short and dry, but the chasm erupts with unspoken sentiments. That’s all that is said, though. That’s all there ever is.

They continue on. As well as it could be defined, that’s how the ride goes for the first hour and a half. That is, until Nevix drives over one particularly harsh pothole in the road. The bags in the van’s rear jolt but that’s not what draws the trio’s attention. It’s the sudden cursing and a second voice grumbling an apology that has Nevix slamming the break and Renee thanking her creator that they’re on a deserted back road.

Nevix twists the volume dial off.

Andrew pauses, a potato chip poised before his mouth.

Renee cringes.

All at once, everything becomes quiet.

“Joseph,” Nevix starts.

“Oh shoot,” Renee murmurs.

 _Cru-uunch_. Andrew wipes a smattering of crumbs off his mouth.

No peep from the rear.

“Tell me,” their handler continues, hands gripping the wheel so tightly Andrew wonders if their skin will bruise. “Tell me I’m hearing things. That I didn’t just hear Nathaniel’s and Matthew’s voices.”

Andrew finishes swallowing the munched chip. “You are hearing things.”

Nevix slowly turns their head to Andrew. The scars underneath their eyelids crinkle. “Danseuse,” they say, without looking away from the blonde, “the bags.”

Andrew places another chip into his mouth, aluminum bag crackling with the effort. He calmly maintains eye contact with his handler.

“Um.” Andrew watches Renee pause from his peripheral vision where she’s in the van’s second row, body leaning over where the third and fourth rows have been folded down to make room for the equipment. “I’m looking?”

She phrases it like a question. Andrew stifles a smirk.

“Is there anything,” Nevix grits out, still watching Andrew, “that shouldn’t be there?”

Neil puts his index finger to his lips, the digit pleading for mercy.

Renee hums. “Something like that.”

Nevix’s mouth thins. Andrew is rescued from saying anything though when a fourth voice pipes up.

“You know, I have to say. I really like what you’ve done with your hair, Ren.”

“God- _fucking-_ damnit.” Nevix slams their hands against the wheel before rounding on Andrew, who’s casually finishing up the rest of his snack. “Matthew Donovan Boyd, what the hell are you doing here?”

Matt pops his head up from behind the second row’s bench seats. He’s half covered by some bags and…

A second person. Nevix curses again, just for the sake of it.

“Salut,” Neil greets. Andrew can’t see Neil’s head from where he’s studying the van’s back in the rearview mirror, but by the looks of it, Matt’s trying to push away a couple of the bags that had been covering them for Neil to sit up.

Nevix practically shouts, “I _specifically_ said—“

“Yeah, yeah, roll over and play dead for you, I get it.” Neil’s head emerges from the pile and Andrew presses his lips together. Matt won’t look at Nevix, but instead unsuccessfully tries to untangle his legs from Neil’s from where they’ve been squashed together over an hour. Andrew has to give it to them; he didn't think they’d last even a quarter of this long.

Neil points two fingers from his forehead to Nevix in a sarcastic salute. “Well, surprise, surprise, motherfucker.”

Andrew doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t.

Nevix makes a sound then that, moments before, Andrew would’ve swore impossible for anything other than, say, wolves to make. Neil’s self-pleased grin, if anything, grows wider.

“Get out.”

Matt guffaws. “What?”

“Get _out_ of the van,” Nevix growls. “You are not coming to Columbia.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Simon’s gonna say ‘no’ on that, chief. ”

“I—“

“Think of the paperwork,” Renee reasons with her handler. “It’s really not worth it.”

Nevix’s horrified expression drives home the point. _No one_ likes paperwork.

“Sorry to rain on your parade,” Neil says, sounding anything but and, Andrew notes, in the wrong context but whatever, “but time’s ticking. Eighty miles is still quite a ways and I don’t fancy dawdling any more than necessary. Chop chop, Kate.”

Andrew shakes his head and stifles the traitorous tug at his lips. He looks ahead out the front window where only miles of gravel and coastal plains reach the eye. A barren-brick road guiding them to Kevin, to the End, to home.

“Fucking Brits,” Andrew mutters and this time, Neil laughs for him.

V.

They come for him sometime later.

Kevin’s expecting it. He can’t believe that they’d ignore him forever. If it’s The Family that’s taken him, Ichirou or Kengo or _someone_ will surely arrive at some point. To admonish Kevin, to take him back into the fold, to break his neck. To _something._

Kevin tries not to react when the doors open. With the opening comes a wave of light pouring in, like an overturned basket spilling fruits of glow. He blinks many times, no longer accustomed to so much light hitting his vision. Just when he think’s he’s adapting to the sensory invasion and starts to make out the figures walking in, someone flips on the room’s actual lighting. The chandeliers, three of them in total, illuminate up ahead.

 _Electric_ , Kevin thinks unnecessarily. He wouldn’t have expected that.

“Posmotri na yego litso,” a voice says. Without making the conscious decision to, Kevin recoils in his seat as if he could possibly avoid whatever is coming. He’s still blinking, trying to unblur his vision from where his dried contacts and the bright light have skewed it. He can’t make out the words, only it’s cruel, almost amused tone.

“ _Prelestnyy_.” It’s almost a coo, though Kevin makes no mistake this is bad. Very bad. Because as his vision finally focuses and he takes in the sight of the three—no, four—people surrounding him, Kevin comes to the realization this is worse than he expected. Because he doesn’t recognize anyone. Which means this isn’t The Family’s doing. This isn’t anything Kevin has any way or idea of navigating.

He thinks, for the thousandth and one time, this can’t really be happening.

At least if it were Ichirou Kevin were facing, Kevin would be able to plead, to beg for his life, to beg for a swift death. But the three men and one woman looking down at him with cruel smiles and a crueler supply of weaponry attached to their persons is nothing Kevin thinks he can negotiate with. He’s not the person they want to bargain with, that much is clear. He’s the piece of meat, the paycheck trapped in a skin suit.

The sole woman says something else to her companions. There’s an edge of familiarness about her, but before Kevin can place any connections, she’s pulling a thin blade from her hip sheath that has Kevin’s mouth drying.

“Wait, what are you—“

He never finishes his sentence. They don’t bother asking any questions. There’s no theatrical props to the scene, no dramatic monologuing from the villains. No warning.

One of the men whispers to the woman, followed by a sharp bark of laughter, and then the knife is flying across Kevin’s face, a diagonal slice that cuts from his brow to the opposite cheek.

Blood, that lethal ambrosia, blooms.

Kevin screams.

•

Andrew studies the speedometer. As if gaze alone could inspire, Nevix presses the gas even harder.

Sixty-seven miles…sixty-four….sixty…

“Breathe,” Andrew murmurs to his absent god, “Atme einfach, Kevin.”

_We’re coming._

•

The woman retracts her arm, the knife held up like some tragic paintbrush, before she attacks her canvas again with a contrasting stroke to complete the symbol.

“X marks the spot, our little songbird,” she says. But Kevin can’t hear her over the sound of his own panicked cries, face stinging in a way no person could understand lest they suffer the same fate.

 _They never even asked my name,_ he has the gall to think. As if savagery has ever been settled by mere mortality.

Blood falls into his eyes, the twin organs somehow preserved from the blade. The cuts aren’t deep, but true enough to bleed, to burn, to brand.

_X marks the spot—_

_X marks the spot—_

_Ready or not, little fox, time’s almost up—_

“You can’t kill me,” Kevin gasps. He doesn’t know why. Now isn’t the time to be making orders, especially not to this ravenous conspiracy. “You can’t, you—“

“Can and will,” one of the men cuts in, accent strong, “are two different things.”

Kevin shudders. He rocks his head side-to-side in efforts to shake the blood that’s dripping down and obscuring his vision once more. His wrists strain where they’re bound to the arms of the chair.

“Do not worry yourself,” the woman says. She’s not looking at Kevin in favor of admiring the crimson-stained blade. She holds it up to the light as if searching for some secret, scrying for some epiphany to enlighten her of the devil’s motives. “We have left enough tracks for the fox. He will show.”

She says it so confidently Kevin finds himself stilling, emotional horror replacing the physical. Neil. She must mean Neil.

Which means...

“You serve the Butcher.”

Kevin feels rather proud of himself for figuring that out, but the four individuals stare back unimpressed. He tries not to wither under their gaze.

“We serve ourselves,” the woman says before sliding the blade away, still stained with Kevin’s blood. “Once the prince returns, we will have direction. Guidance.”

“Power,” adds the man next to her, who looks too similar for them not be related, and curls a hand around one of his own sheathed blades at his hip. There’s something about them that’s familiar. He’s not sure what, though.

“Prince...” Kevin swallows. He shakes his head again, this time reflexively. “He’ll never lead you. He’s not your’s. Not anymore.”

For all that he shouldn’t trust Neil after all this, the words come as easily as breath. Instinct. Naturally.

That’s what Neil had always been getting at, wasn’t he? The truth he couldn’t say, the reality he so desperately wanted to live but couldn’t admit. Neil’s past was as bound to the man as Kevin’s to himself. The strings of Fate are thick and long, but even then, Neil sawed away at the strands he could reach. Even if it was useless.

_I don’t know who’s after me._

But Kevin knows. What was it the woman said? They’d left tracks. So Neil must know by now too. Neil must know these people had taken Kevin, had...

It’s a trap.

Not even that. _Kevin’s_ the trap. Kevin’s the fucking block of cheese in the mousetrap. The pile of leaves disguising the dug out hole.

Kevin’s the X marks the spot and Neil’s—

Neil’s—

Neil’s heading straight into the lion’s den.

“How many of you,” Kevin finds himself wondering, teardrops of blood falling into his mouth when he speaks, “how many of you are there?”

The woman’s smug expression is casualty. “Enough to burn you all.”

A sizable portion of their slaughter-kin had been arriving in the eastern United States for the past week. They slowly filed in to the country like fire ants searching for the harvest, ready for the next kill, the next resurrection, and nested in the bowels of the manor they had infested—the same manor Kevin now wait. The Butcher’s old Kingdom would have their prince; a new puppet for the masters. Neil would reign as a god with the power of a fraud. The Malcoms, being Lola, the woman, Romero, the man—siblings, after all, and who’d been hiding out at Foxborough, no less—would rule instead.

The rest of Neil’s old family waited back in Matushka Rus for the triumphant to return home. The Butcher had many sympathizers, more who wanted to see his son take his place than not. They would _see_ Nathaniel Wesninski, alright. The strings, the stage, the script of a man he’d become—they would not.

All this and the rest of the horrid puzzle pieces is what the woman and her companion tell Kevin. But it’s not just a brazen confession for the unblissfully ignorant; nor is it stereotypical filler space to allow some group of heroes time to arrive and anticlimactically save the Day.

It’s like Chopin; it’s like Burleigh; it’s like Szymanowska; it’s the background symphony to the pair’s orchestrated abuse. The adagio of a violin, the slow whine of another cut. Glissando now, harps in the rear that beckon the five pronged blade to play upon Kevin’s chest, shirt fabric gliding off with the weeping man’s skin. Scherzando, a tap here, a joke there, a comedy of errors that laughs along with the victim. Andantemente, so smooth and fluid is the rise and fall of dripping blades, of pouring wounds. Drums crescendo, starting low and deep before swelling with a violent clamor: Kevin screams and he screams and the bluebird sings.

“No,” Kevin pleads.

A bowstring of metal. His shoulders the bout.

_“Stop.”_

The woman draws, the man paints; cymbals clashing all around.

_“Please, s'il vous plaît pas plus, I—“_

So much shaking, so much blood; legato left for dead.

_“X marks the spot, X marks the spot.”_

That’s all that can be said.

•

“How many more miles?”  
  
“You’re _looking_ at the G-P-S, Nathaniel.”

“Call me Nathaniel one more time and I’ll shove that G-P-S into your goddamn brain. Maybe you’ll even remember next time.”

Nevix slams their hands against the steering wheel for the fourth time in the past hour. “Forty, alright? Forty. Four-zero. And just a heads up. After this? I’m retiring. Yeah, I said it.” They string the word out. “Re-tie-er-ing.”

From the van’s second row, Neil and Matt exchange a high-five.

•

Instinct gone, Kevin can’t focus on the one simple task that keeps his body functioning. Breath no longer comes naturally but stuttered, waving in an out until it’s cut off completely. He thinks he’s passed out once or twice but somehow he keeps resurfacing against his better wishes. He’s gasping now but he may as well be at the bottom of Wreck’s fourth floor swimming pool.

There’s so much…

_There’s worse than this._

There’s _so_ much _…_

_It’s all there is._

It didn’t look like this in the movies.

Everywhere. On his chest, his arms, his barely existent clothing hanging in tatters all around him. Everywhere except where it should be; that is, inside of him.

How much blood can a person lose before all they are is bone and ash?

_There’s worse than this much worse than this always has and always will be worse than—_

Kevin’s vision wavers.

Cuts always look worse than they appear, someone tells him— _told_ him. Not _now_ , but long ago, he has to remind himself. Maybe it was his mother. Or maybe it was just a book. Or maybe those two are the same thing for what are memories of the dead but stories to read under the covers when no one’s around?

X marks the spot. So many X’s; so much blood. Can the fox smell his feast from here?

But—

 _He_ _can’t come,_ someone thinks. Maybe it’s Kevin. Maybe it’s the story. _He can’t come, he can’t see me like this._

_He can’t come they’ll turn him into this too, they’ll cut him up and string him up for the puppet men to noose._

_He’s going to come he’s going to die he’s going to—_

But—

No.

 _They_ will come. Neil and Andrew both.

Like Timagoras and his lover Meles, Neil will throw himself off the cliff edge when called by the winds of honor and loyalty. And Kevin is the goddamn rocks Andrew will follow Neil to rest on, broken and made bare.

_“—No—“_

Oxygen should not feel so toxic.

His blood, outside and within and so far at once, rebels.

“ _God_ , _please_ , _no.”_

It’s so easy to be selfish. To take what is not your’s to take. To accept what is not your’s to accept. But this— _this_ Kevin does not want, though he is forced to have. Forced to live with the truth that Neil and Andrew, as stupid and as _monstrous_ as they can be, will come for him. Will raise heaven and hell and every damn sinner in between for Kevin Day. They will come, but how can they possibly conquer this seven headed snake? How can they possibly survive these beasts if they can barely survive themselves?

They can’t come. But they will.

Eve and the apple would have been a lesser mistake.

But human history began with a Fall. Is it too much to wonder, then, that history must end with such as well? Kevin knows history, after all.

 _But_ , the ghosts whisper, _their history will never be like our’s._

It’s not the blood that obscures his vision this time, blinding him to the world.

It’s the sorrow.

•

Nevix’s phone rings. They and Andrew exchange a glance before Andrew’s picking up the device.

“Ngoek,” he says.

“Answer it,” Nevix says.

He answers it. Speaker phone. Renee and Matt and Neil hold their breath.

“Vixen,” their boss greets.

“Aye,” from the driver’s seat.

“How much longer?”

“Twenty minutes out, Sir. And you?”

A pause from the man. There’s the sound of incoherent murmurings from his side of the line. And then: “Extraction team’s closing in. Five minutes until retrieval.

“Get you and your charges here, Vixen. My brother does not appreciate waiting.”

The line cuts short.

Not a word from the peanut gallery.

The reality of what is to come is much more heavy than what has been thought.

The End, inevitably, approaches.

•

_“Mama,” he’s saying._

_“Mama, wake up.”_

_Kayleigh smiles, dark curls bouncing over her shoulders when she reaches over to ruffle Kevin’s hair. The radio must be too loud because she doesn’t hear him, tapping her fingers on the wheel to the upbeat melody of the song that’s playing. “We’re almost there, mon trésor.”_

_“No, no, you’re not listening—“_

_“Progress, Kevin,” Kayleigh shushes. “This is progress.”_

_Kevin shakes his head. There’s blood in his eyes, staining his sclerae watermelon. “Mama, you have to wake up. The Fox is coming, X marks the spot. S’il te plaît, réveille-toi. You—“_

_Kayleigh’s still laughing when the steering wheel jerks from her hands, the vehicle crashing to a stop like an egg smacking tile. Kevin’s crying now, hitting his mom’s broken shoulders to wake her up, to open her eyes, to unbuckle his seatbelt because he can’t reach the little eject button where it’s squashed between the console and his mangled leg._

_“Mama, mama, come on. I’m not going anywhere. We’re not going anywhere.”_

_“Don’t leave me.”_

_Kevin’s face crumples in defeat like his mother’s skull against the wheel. She won’t stop laughing and he curses her, he curses the shattered windowpane, he curses like he’s been told many times not to do but Kayleigh won’t listen to him so why should he listen to her?_

_“Arrêter de rire,” he cries. “I hate you, I hate you. Arrête ça—“_

_“Wake up,” Kayleigh laughs. Kevin sobs._

_“Wake up, Kevin. Wake up, the prince is coming. Oh, how he rides!”_

_“Wake up, wake up.”_

_He screams until the glass shatters once more._

•

“Do you have eyes on the targets?”

“Affirmative.”

“How many?”

“Six in the West corner. Five at the East. Seven, maybe—no, nine. Nine on the landing. North end unidentified.”

“Guards?”

“No, um. Spectators. They’re waiting. For something, not sure what.”

“A Queen deserves a court, no?” A pause. “Very well, then. Proceed with your orders.

And remember—No survivors.”

“Understood, Lord Ichirou. Proceeding with retrieval, over.”

•

Of all places, Kevin’s thigh is throbbing.

He awakes with a shout still strangled in his throat, one last - _ma_ ringing out on his lips. Two of the men are gone—wait, no, they’ve been gone, haven’t they? When did they leave?—stranding Kevin alone with the other pair.

Lola, she’d called herself.

Oremor, said the man. Romero. The face in the mirror, the dirty truth reflected back at you.

Slowly, painfully, Kevin remembers where he is. He wheezes in air like a fish thrown back in water. _In_ and _out. In_ and _out._ Staccato. Lola smirks, satisfied with herself. She drops something to the floor.

A needle.

“Wha-what,” Kevin stammers. His heart is racing even faster than he thinks is necessary, like the organ is trying to convince his impassive body back to life. It must be persuasive because his limbs shake in their restraints, thrashing for purchase, sliding against the wet and slick of still running blood.

He had been right. The upholstery is soaked.

“What did—qu'est ce que, oh god,” he groans. “Qu'est ce que tu m'as fait?”

There’s a flash of light from the doorway. Someone’s opened the double doors, and now a handful of people watch from the entrance like impatient vultures assessing their last meal.

“You gave too much, Lola,” the man grumbles.

Kevin squeezes his eyes shut before the lids are blown back open almost without his control. The blood on his face is still wet, though some has dried, and some flakes fly off when he shakes his head viciously to the urges of the shakes.

Too much, too much. Gave too much.

Needle.

 _Adrenaline,_ Kevin’s pulsing mind supplies and he stifles another groan.

“Just enough,” Lola corrects. “Always just enough.”

Woken from one nightmare to another. A cycle of brutal interruptions. It’s unbearable. Somebody whistles from the doorway.

“How much longer?” Romero grumbles. “I am ready to end this.”

“Patience is a virtue,” his sister says.

_Of slaughter, of slaughter, the virtue of a slaughter._

Kevin rakes in a breath he doesn’t quite feel. Will this audience bathe in his execution? Rejoice in his de-throning?

He never wanted to rule. He never wanted to be followed.

He just wants to lay under the setting sun and feed cherries to the people whom he sacrificed his love.

The thought of Andrew wiping the blood out of Kevin’s eyes, of Neil stabbing that damned needle back into that woman’s—Lola’s—neck washes through his mind like an ocean tide. He tries to hold onto the image as long as possible. But you can’t hang onto water. It just washes away.

His blood is flowing, washing away.

Like sins, like sorrow, washing away.

Baptism, purging the fire away.

“Don’t come,” he pleads. As if Zephyr will return from the dead just to satisfy a mortal’s wish. “Don’t come for me.”

It’s all he wants for Neil and Andrew to come riding in with the gates of Hell on their heels. Not the knights in shining armor to his fairytale highness, but the brazen dragons ready to burn this castle down. To burn them all down with only ash to sweep.

But they _can’t_. They can’t come. Kevin will bear the unbearable. He’ll accept the unacceptable. But not this. Not the thought of their fall. Not the thought of losing them because of his own mortality.

Not the thought of their blood running out before his. Because Kevin’s so goddamn selfish. Because he couldn’t live without their hot brand.

That’s a dream, an agony of a nightmare, he knows he would never wake up from.

_“Don’t save me this time.”_

He stubbornly—desperately—clings to the prayer like a hand slipping off the cliff edge when the first of the screams that are not his own rise up.

He never even feels the first bullet strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from hozier’s no plan
> 
> The song playing on the radio is walking on a dream by empire of the sun. Its annoyingly catchy and very upbeat and im just,, obsessed with the trope of a super fun and cheery song playing in the background when dark or serious things are happing so sakjhdgvf
> 
> References to:  
> “Dead Boys”, Sam Fender  
> Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451  
> Shakespeare’s Othello  
> Donna Tartt  
> Pinocchio  
> Carry On, Rainbow Rowell  
> Little Beast, Richard Siken
> 
> Translations:  
> Sine qua non: (literal) without which [there is] nothing, (more recognized meaning) a thing that is absolutely necessary.  
> Schwarz: black  
> Du wirst mir die Wahrheit sagen, You will tell me the truth  
> Razbudi, or Разбуди: wake up  
> posmotri na yego litso or посмотри на его лицо: look at his face  
> Prelestnyy or прелестный: adorable (tho used condescendingly)  
> Atme einfach: just breathe  
> Arrêter de rire: stop laughing  
> arrête ça: stop that  
> Qu'est ce que tu m'as fait: what did you do to me


	26. I Don't Want God, I Just Want the Weight of Your Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is home  
> If not the first place you learn to run from?”  
> ~Clementine von Radics, Courtney Love Prays to Oregon
> 
> “I am writing because they told me to never start a sentence with because. But I wasn't trying to make a sentence—I was trying to break free. Because freedom, I am told, is nothing but the distance between the hunter and its prey.”  
> ~Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
> 
> “You don’t have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you never can go back…Though perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.”  
> ― James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus fried chicken this chapter was *supposed* to be 12k and ended up being the longest of this fic so far at a generous 17k. I am,,, so sorry. but im also not. my fic my rules lmao but also I really am sorry if you don't like long chapters. in other news, there are only two more chapters to go!! (one last chapter plus an epilogue chapter). I started writing titwtwe in march of last year in the very first week c*vid became a ~big deal~ where I am, and to know there's a good chance I'll be finishing this before a whole year has passed is,,,,,,, well, it goes to show where my priorities lie: nowhere where they should be, but exactly where I want them to be wkjdhsfg anyway. thank u so much for reading, plz leave a comment if you so like!!! mwah
> 
> cw: mentions and the use of weapons, guns, knives, bullets, lots of blood and descriptions of new and old wounds and the taking care of, medical care without anesthesia, description of scars, extremely graphic descriptions of mutilated corpses and desecration of dead bodies. self-harm/mutilation. again, violent. dark. etc. if there is anything else/more specific you feel should be/personally want mentioned, plz let me know :)

I.

It’s more of a shoulder graze than anything.

For, Kevin at least. He looks up, eyes wide and mouth gaping at the sudden barrage. Lola still stands in front of him but her face has twisted from cruel pleasure to rage. She goes to turn but gasps, hand clutching at her abdomen. The red shirt she wears darkens, colors blooming rich. Bleeding together.

Bleeding.

The bullet passed clean through her.

“Holy fuck,” Kevin chokes out. His smile must be a horror, all blood and skin crackling around his lips. “You’re dead, bitch.”

The snarl Lola unleashes then proves her wolfish ancestry. She tries to lift her blade but the pain must stop her because she bends over, clutching at her waist as terror unfurls in the background. Romero shouts something—Russian, Kevin can’t understand—and then he’s grabbing his sister’s shoulders and forcing them somewhere behind Kevin’s periphery.

The relief only lasts for a few seconds though. The sounds of destruction, of hell overtaking earth, flood the dusty ballroom with the force of a thousand suns. Despite the adrenaline and fear powering his nerves, Kevin has enough focus to wonder how he’s not yet dead. He groans from the new pain in his arm mixing with the old but the vision of life massacred in front of him is somehow worse. He may as well be a bystander experiencing the apocalypse with how unnoticed he goes.

He can’t turn around in his chair to see where the Malcolms went, but he’s almost certain there’s no where _to_ go except for the entry doors. The same doors where Hades has unleashed. Lola’s blood marks a trail on the marble floor and he hopes to god it’ll eventually lead to her corpse.

“Eto zasada!”

A person who’d been in the crowd of spectators earlier rushes past. They’ve almost made it to Kevin when a loud _pop!_ shatters the air and they collapse, like a puppet who’s strings have been snapped.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck _fuckfuckfuck_.” Kevin prays it won’t be his last words.

There’s too much all at once. The fatal rotation of a machine gun— _click_ click _click_ —to his left; breaking glass— _crash_ crash _crash_ —to his right; bullets raining down— _bang_ bang **_bang_** —all around him.

Thinking _, This can’t be it, this can’t be how it ends._

The group that had been clustered near the front doors have all now scattered like birds, though whatever is hunting them has obviously outmatched the Butcher’s sycophants. Men and women scramble into the ballroom, seeking cover from the invisible god intent on uncreating his worst of creation.

_Are they killing each other?_ he thinks.

Has the world finally gone mad?

More people drop around him: the two men who’d confronted him earlier with the Malcolms lay sprawled on the marble, heads and chests shredded into abstract art. A woman to Kevin’s left clutches to life with the last of her willpower, despite the smattering of bullet holes that would allow Kevin sight of the wall behind her if it weren’t for the blood pouring out like Niagara. He still doesn’t see where Lola nor Romero have gone; but to be honest, he’s not looking anymore. Their role in this melee no longer matters to him with the confusion, bloody wonder racing through his trapped veins. Because however long this lasts is enough time for the man to sink into pure shock, survival instinct overcoming emotional. It’s his only reprieve while he waits for the onslaught to finally turn his way.

But it never does.

Seconds, minutes at the very most, really, is all it takes before it’s over. But for Kevin, stranded on his island of wood and weary, it’s a whole cycle around the sun.

Revolution, his bones say.

Revolution; another day.

There’s more people outside the entranceway now. They must have used the stairs; Kevin’s sure at this point he’s on at least a second or third floor. So much for the basement cliche. The new comers could not stand out more from the people who’ve taken Kevin. Dressed in all black and suited for war, Kevin sees a flash of red on each of their breastplates. Fresh horror dawning, as if he hasn’t had enough to last a few lifetimes, and mixing with some sort of suicidal relief, Kevin’s mouth drops open in a silent whimper.

One of the masked men lifts a sig and puts the struggling woman to Kevin’s left out of her misery. Kevin won’t lose sleep over her early retirement, but he might need to put in a few more therapy sessions for the smattering of blood that covers him in a film when the bullet hits her square in the forehead. And a blood test. Oh shit, he better not get some disease from this.

The red he’d seen is no trick of the eye. Bright, like a freshly plucked Winesap, the red insignia marking each of the newcomer’s breastplates is more recognizable to Kevin than his own handwriting. The familiar kanji is the beacon, the lantern, the green light on Charon’s ferry signaling Kevin home to hell.

The Family has arrived.

•

The first rule of American combat etiquette is simple: never bring a knife to a gunfight.

But Neil is not American. Nor is anything he does simple.

And while he’s prepared to play with the bulldogs, old habits die hard. He may be cocked and loaded, but it’s really no surprise that his twin khukuris are drenched before he’s even considered unholstering a Glock.

“This,” Katelyn snarls, waving their sig in Neil’s direction and breaking the second rule of combat etiquette. You _never_ point a weapon down range when a non-target is in the line of fire. Jesus, even Neil knows that.

Well, it _is_ Katelyn. So maybe Neil is a target now. Go figure.

“This is why I didn’t want you to come,” they continue but finally move the gun’s muzzle out of Neil’s range. “You’re wasting our time.”

Renee smiles placidly where she’s reloading. “Can’t blame him, Nev. This is child’s play for a—“

“Don’t you dare take his side,” Katelyn growls. “Mutilation is _not_ child’s play. Goddamnit, I’m babysitting a bunch of assassins.”

Neil rolls his eyes and gestures to Andrew. _Help me out._ Andrew only raises a bored brow at where Neil’s standing over a pile of limbs and entrails. He might’ve gotten carried away, Neil will admit. But it’s not like he gets a chance to cut open his dad’s old _Sovietnik_ every day. Hell, Neil didn’t think he’d ever see the old git again. It was only polite to make a memorable impression.

For all the three seconds the man was alive, that is.

“I’m not holding you back,” Neil tells the OCRA agent in cool Russian. The sounds of mayhem and possibly a thousand bullets thundering upstairs on the second and third floors forces Neil to almost shout to be heard. “You’re the one who said Itchy ordered us to guard the bottom floor. By all means, disobey him, look around. I’m the least of your worries.”

Speaking of Itchy, he said he’d be arriving in Columbia _Friday_. Apparently, Neil’s not the only liar in The Family. Once all is said and done, Neil can confidently say he will be having a _word_ with the man.

Andrew shakes his head. “Sie und Ihre Spitznamen,” he mutters.

Matt looks like he’s about to add something when the sound of feet hitting tile rings around the corner. Seconds later, a man who is certainly not with OCRA or The Family appears, chest heaving and white button down splattered with blood. Possibly, it’s his own.

It may be the look of panic on his face that gives him away, but it’s more likely the startled, “ _Prince_ ,”when he sees Neil that seals the deal.

“Hey, you’re my old English tutor!” Neil exclaims, grin wide. “Wow, Gospodin Gandon. What’s it been—ten, eleven years? How’s the wife?”

The man doesn’t have a chance to relive old memories because then Neil’s blades are in his stomach, twisting deep where Neil’s crossed them into an _X_ , and the blood coughing out of his mouth is slurring any chance of imparting personal life updates.

“Incredible,” Neil murmurs into his prey’s ear. “Tell me: will I still be your prince when I feed your ribs to the dogs? Be honest.”

The man will never say. A sudden shift of air is the only warning before the end of a manji shuriken appears protruding out of the man’s forehead, impaled somewhere deep enough inside that it’s an immediate lights out. He’s dead before Neil’s had a chance to free his blades and push the limp body to the ground.

“What the fuck was that for?” Neil demands. He spins, gesturing his weapon-filled hands outward in a show of frustration. Matt nimbly skips out of the way with a grunt to avoid a kebob treatment. “I was trying to have a conversation.”

But surprisingly, it’s not Katelyn this time who’s prematurely ended Neil’s fun. It’s Andrew, who stalks forward without a word and retrieves his throwing star.

“What. The _fuck_ , Minyard,” Neil huffs.

“Idiot.” Andrew’s sigh is clipped, not a shred of patience in his delivery. He gestures toward the body before stomping back the way he came. Katelyn curses and Renee hums.

“Oh.” Neil grimaces at the small khanjali curled inside the corpse’s fist. That…wouldn’t have been good. “I had it under control, you know.”

“Shut up,” Andrew and Katelyn say in unison before glaring at each other.

Matt groans. “They better free Kevin before you all tear each other’s throats out.”

Renee pats his back. “Already regretting OCRA’s help, Matthew?”

“Oh, my sweet dancer,” Matt deadpans. “Since the second I made the call.”

A body next to Renee’s foot twitches and she takes a moment to crush it’s windpipe with her boot. Just for ease of mind. “Well. That’s fair.”

“Agents!” One of Ichirou’s soldiers appears over the second floor balcony. “First and second floors are contained. Moving in on third. Report to your stations.”

_Contained_. That means all of the Butcher’s supporters on the first two floors have been accounted for. That means somewhere in this house, Lola and Romero Malcolm may be dead, or close to it.That means Kevin’s been located.

_Report to your stations._

And that means…

That means Kevin’s alive.

The sensation of being watched prickles Neil’s skin. He turns to find Andrew’s gaze on him and their eyes meet, ash melting ice. There’s too many things to say. There’s no words sufficient enough to speak aloud. Neil nods once and he knows Andrew understands when the blonde, after a pause, mirrors the act.

“If this wasn’t for Day,” Neil says low enough only the five around him can hear, “I’d rip Itchy’s throat out too.”

Katelyn sighs. “A-fucking-men. Now let’s go.”

•

It starts like this:

Clipped feet on tile, pressed Corneliani heading Kevin’s way.

It ends like this:

So quiet, so quiet—too _quiet_ after the slaughter.

It starts like this:

Unstable breathing, almost glad he’s still tied to the chair lest he fall to the floor amongst the dead.

It ends like this:

The clearing of a throat, the order to stand at attention that the soldiers follow like gospel.

It starts like this:

Lord Ichirou Moriyama in the flesh, and in entirely better condition than the prodigal son mangled before him. He lifts up a watched wrist and clicks his tongue. By a bloody miracle, they’re still on schedule.

It ends like this:

Kevin comes to terms with the course of his fate set up before him. He hangs his head and, with a heavy breath, delivers over what’s left of his battered spirit.

•

The rules are simple.

One: listen closely. Your life may depend on this.

Two: never interrupt. Your life will depend on this.

Three: obey, obey, obey. Your life always depends on this.

“Kevin Day.”

_That’s my name, that’s my name._

He listens; he does not interrupt; he will obey.

He has no other option.

Kevin can’t tell if it’s his lungs burning or the wounds.

“Chosen child.”

_That’s my title, that’s my title._

He listens; he does not interrupt; he will obey.

It’s his only option.

Both, he decides. Definitely both.

“Aren’t you a mess.”

_That’s the truth, that’s the truth._

He listens; he does not interrupt; he will obey.

There’s never been another option.

He must look like a slaughterhouse.

But Ichirou Moriyama, well. There’s a man who’s never experienced one bad hair day in his life. Not a wrinkle in his suit, and while his appearance is immaculate, you would think that any speck of blood or brain matter left on his body (if there had been any) was intentional. He’s the man who practically raised Kevin when Tetsuiji stepped down. A man who’s killed more people than Kevin can ever come to terms with. A man who killed Riko, his own brother. A man who broke and eroded a piece of Kevin’s soul that Kevin didn’t think he still had.

“I am sure you have realized by now, little warrior,” the Lord says, low voice filling the ballroom with an ease only few possess, “that this all could have been avoided.” He cocks his head, arms folded behind his back, his eyes roaming around the room of killed killers. “Though you should be grateful. I have become generous in my older age. And while I…”

Ichirou’s eyes narrow only slightly at Kevin’s less than immaculate appearance. He waves a hand to one of the soldiers behind him. “Miranda, wipe his face, would you? There’s some blood blocking—everything…ah, much better. I can actually see his eyes now. Funny marks those are.”

Kevin’s not exactly sure what the Lord finds so funny, but he listens. He won’t interrupt. He almost wants to cry or start screaming again, but that’s not a good idea. Besides, Kevin doesn’t think his body can handle losing any more fluids.

“As I was saying. While I regret the lengths we had to go through to get you here, there was considerable justification for our means. As you can see.” Hands spreading wide, he’s the brewing pride of another conquest. The bodies on the floor the proof.

“Kevin Day, make no mistake: this was planned. But all great and glorious things are. You have served our Family beautifully and with your help we have conquered this _nezumi_ upon our house. There is no doubt your standing amongst us. You _are_ Family, Kevin. You have been since your dear mother entrusted you to us.”

He listens, he listens, he listens.

Because if he stops to let the words sink in, he’ll interrupt. He’ll disobey. He’ll combust into flames.

And everything will be over.

“Do not think for one second that a single member of our Family has forgotten you over the years. Nor entertain any idea that you were ever out of our reach, even for a day. You have been away from home because I have _allowed_ you to be away.”

Kevin shuts his eyes. Fire crackles somewhere in his chest.

Just hours ago he was hoping to have survive some stupid play rehearsal and go have lunch with Andrew and Neil. Now, he’s face to face with his old captors. His past made incarnate.

How did the world turn this way?

“But—like I said.” Ichirou is not oblivious to Kevin’s turmoil. He simply does not care. “I have become generous. You’re welcome, my dear boy. I did not guide you home against your will. I have instead granted you ample incentive to return on your own two feet.”

Listening, listening—

What?

Ichirou snaps his fingers, and the double doors behind him are opened once more. Immediately, the sounds of struggle and angry voices filter in the large space. Kevin’s eyes fly open, relief and panic and joy and horror coalescing in a whirlpool of emotion at the sight he sees before him.

Ten Moriyama soldiers stalk in, two flanking each person the soldiers lead. Two of the non-soldiers are bound—prisoners?—and duct tape wrapped once, twice, _three_ times around the unlucky pair’s mouths. And even that’s not completely silencing the muffled grunts each man is making.

_Merde._

They’re here.

Another snap from the Lord, and all five escorted persons are pushed down to one knee, horizontal alongside. Every single one of them reflect some shade of grim horror on their faces when they see Day bound and bloodied in his chair.

Kevin thinks his heart may have stopped.

“Now that we’re all together…” Ichirou claps his hands together once. “Let’s have a chat. Nathaniel is overdue his promotion, isn’t that right?”

From where he’s forced to kneel next to Andrew, Neil’s eyes are as dark as a starving black hole. He can’t say anything from behind the duct tape blocking his mouth. But if he could, Kevin is sure of one thing.

Neil would be goddamn interrupting.

Thank fuck for the tape.

Kevin looks between the pair, raking in as many details as possible. Andrew’s face is gaunt and shadowed; either he’s suffering another bought of withdrawal or he’s particularly stressed. Considering the circumstances, Kevin wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a combination of both. Neil seems in the same boat, and while he’s vibrating with some sort of combustive energy too, he and Andrew share the exact same expression when they meet Kevin’s eyes:

Rage.

But rather than being directed at Kevin, Kevin is certain that rage is for someone-some _thing_ else. Something that’s rotting all over this run-down manor, a collective dead that needs to be resurrected if only for the sake of damning once more. Andrew and Neil watch Kevin watch them, absorbing the cuts and blood and bruises littering Kevin’s body ( _X marks the spot, here’s now the fox)_ that most certainly were not there that morning. Other than the uncomfortable positions they’re in, they’re relatively unharmed from what Kevin can see.

At least there’s that.

Kevin manages enough will power to tear his eyes away, if only for a moment, to take in the other three. With a start, he realizes that one of the persons is Aaron’s partner. Is—? But no, Aaron’s not here. Instead, it’s Renee…And _Matt_? Jesus Christ, who woke up and turned reality so far upside down? None of them, Kevin notes, dare speak even without being gagged.

So they know the rules.

“This is…” Kevin strains in his bonds, voice no louder than a hoarse whisper. “What-What is this?”

Ichirou dips his head, smile sharp.

“This,” he chuckles as if it were some inside joke, “is the start.”

Neil struggles where he’s bound, arms trying to break from his bonds. One of the soldiers kicks him in the shin. But his face only darkens at the blow.

Kevin looks from Neil to Ichirou. From the man who supposedly was to lead Kevin back to The Family, to the head of The Family itself. If Neil wasn’t the prey but Kevin instead, what did that leave them? Hunter and hunted? Equal in victimhood?

“The start of what?” Kevin manages to say.

“The rest of your life, chosen child.” Ichirou gestures toward the five kneeling on the floor. “And you have your compatriots here to thank.”

Kevin doesn’t know what the others look like because he only has eyes for Andrew and Neil. Andrew won’t look away from Ichirou, whether from not being able to handle Kevin’s wounded sight or hoping to inflict pain on Ichirou through gaze alone, Kevin doesn’t know. But Neil’s eyes are red and angry and Kevin could almost feel the hot tears on his skin as if they were his own.

“We’ll have you sown up before we talk business,” Ichirou continues as if the people around him could possibly be pieced back together, “but I wanted you to see the faces of your saviors before we started.”

Saviors, enslavers, what’s the difference when you’ve no say in the matter?

But, Kevin considers of the five on the floor, they’re no more free than I. Are they?

All men are created equal if their chains are forged identical.

If it weren’t the adrenaline shot still pumping through his veins, Kevin knows he’d be out. Fucking assholes. What he would kill to be unconscious and unaware of everything right now. To escape to a dream, even if it’s just as bad because at least then it wouldn’t be real. Because—

_This was planned._

It _was_ a trap, Kevin knew it. But not like he thought. A trap within a trap, a dream within a dream.

_You have been away from home because I have_ allowed _you to be away._

Every second, every day. They knew where he was. They were _still_ in control. But what did he mean, incentive to return?

_Let’s have a chat._

The first time Kevin heard Ichirou utter those words, the Moriyama Lord decided to saw the hands off of the man who’d provoked Ichirou’s wrath. The second time, Ichirou didn’t bother with doing the job himself; dry cleaners couldn’t handle the stains. So he’d sent one of his lackeys to disembowel the poor Bastard of the Month and made Kevin and Riko watch.The third time, it was to cut off Riko from the Family inheritance, and by virtue of the same effect, Kevin lost all of Riko’s temperance. Several broken bones and hearts later, Kevin came to Foxborough. But at a cost.

And now, Kevin fears the cost of this chat will be more than Kevin has left to lose. He should never have fled Riko or The Family. But what is home if not the first place you learn to run from? Because if Riko had killed him…hell, if The Family had taken them _both_ out, it would have been more merciful a fate than what’s surely to come because this— _this_ is what it’s come to, isn’t it? The final act, the closing number. This, _this_ is the way the world ends. Not with any great bang from bombs on high or executed noise. But with the last strings connecting Kevin to his gods finally severed clean at the roots.

Before they whimper out of existence for good.

II.

At some point, Kevin’s released from the chair.

He’s not freed, but handed from one leash to another. The five people the soldiers had marched in are led out once more and brought to another room to wait for Kevin. Someone shoves a rag into his mouth and tells him to bite down when they begin the first suture. A few of the cuts are deeper than what’s healable without the stitches. He’s asked if he’s lightheaded and he nods, before realizing he actually hadn’t nodded except in his head. He tries again and the world spins, and someone else forces a cold liquid down his throat. Water, maybe. It tastes like nectar.

There’s no numbing gel or anesthetic to kill the pain. It’s impressive how _much_ pain a human being can handle, the likes of which is impossible to fathom until you’re in that position. Kevin would know; he’s only had to live with it his whole life. But today’s events have amplified his nerves with so much force and pressure he’s surprised he hasn’t collapsed in on himself like a forgotten star.

_Stellar death._ It’s fitting.

He thinks he should feel the needle pulling his skin together like fabric. In a way, he doesn’t, save for a slight pinch. But he screams a lot and maybe that’s the proof his body’s feeling something even when his mind is not. It’s an out of body experience, a knee jerk-reaction. He thought his voice was hoarse and possibly non-existent from earlier; it’s shot past the eighth circle of hell by now.

A corset of flesh, he considers when the last echoes of his screams have died in the ballroom. Someone tips more of the drink into his mouth and he accepts it all. May as well be bleach, he doesn’t care.

_Worse than this. Worse than this._

He pictures Neil and Andrew forced to kneel before Ichirou. He thinks of Ichirou raising a gun, a knife, a fist like he’s done a thousand times over. He thinks of either Neil or Andrew in Kevin’s place, Neil’s skin torn open, Andrew’s soul stretched bare.

_Could always be worse than this._

When the sutures are done (one on his shoulder where the bullet had grazed, two on his chest from the Malcolm’s rage), the person wipes Kevin’s chest down with an already stained rag. It’s the same one they’d wiped his face with earlier, like some blasphemous Veronica before the cross-bearer. The appointed medic’s assistant has found a way to swap the drink for a cotton shirt and pant set when Kevin wasn’t looking (or maybe when he was screaming. Funnily enough, he doesn’t remember stopping) and they push it into his hands.

They don’t make any move to give him privacy and Kevin is about twenty one years of pain past caring. So with numb, shaking fingers he discards what’s left of his bloodied clothes and pulls the new outfit on. It takes a few attempts to tie the pant’s drawstrings and Kevin’s never been more thankful for a pullover in his life; he’s not sure if buttons would be physically possible for him at the moment. The cotton scrapes his skin and he shudders, glad for the black threads rather than white that would surely stain if any of his stitches don’t hold up.

“Downstairs,” appointed medic huffs, back to soldier mode. Kevin forces another nod as if he has the ability to object. But still he doesn’t move, not quite sure if he can handle stairs without falling flat on his face and possibly breaking a few ribs in the process. 

The two seem to realize this and help Kevin get from the ballroom to where Ichirou, the five students, and a handful of soldiers are waiting for them. There’s really no way to describe how ridiculous a sight they all make. Andrew and Neil, no longer forced to kneel but still cuffed and gagged with tape, unlike the other three who are calmly sipping tea in the armchairs of the open floor plan study they’re in. Kevin’s more surprised Ichirou even bothered with tape and keeping the pair alive, knowing the mouth both men have on them. Ichirou converses in low Japanese with a man who looks vaguely familiar but who hadn’t been upstairs before while they share a plate of biscuits. Hell, how the biscuits got here almost confuses Kevin more than the whole ordeal.

Unlike the movies or the dramatic literary thrillers, silence doesn’t fill the room when Kevin steps in. Neil and Andrew’s gaze is glued on Kevin, but Ichirou and the newcomer’s chatter doesn’t cease, nor do the three seated in the armchairs quiet all that much. Matt watches Kevin with sad doe eyes that Kevin’s not sure to interpret, but doesn’t pause in whatever he’s whispering to Katelyn and Renee.

You’d almost have no idea that a massacre had just taken place not even a half hour before. If not for the three dead bodies propped up outside the study’s doorway, the ivory winifred furniture and potted Anthurium in the windowsills almost lends a Saturday brunch sort of vibe. Kevin takes one look at the corpses before pushing them out of sight, out of mind.

Because two of them are the Malcolm’s.

There’s three bullet holes in Romero’s forehead, and the man’s lower jaw is missing. Kevin has no idea how _that_ could have happened but he looks away from the gory sight quickly. He knows full well it's too late to unsee the bloody veins and skin that hangs from the corpse’s exposed mouth. As for Lola, he only recognizes her from the outfit and bleached hair that’s now matted crimson. Her face is beyond recognition, though, seeing as it’s…well, non-existent. An innumerable amount of stab wounds and a partial flay does that to a person. Strips them of more than skin but identity itself.

_So_ that’s _what happened to them._

Overkill, if you ask Kevin. He’s not too obsessed with getting some mangily revenge. Sweet and simple death is justice enough. But whoever’s responsible for the Malcolm’s mutilation sure was motivated…

But he kinda wishes he had a knife of his own, to be honest. There has to be _some_ therapeutic relief to stabbing his torturer, however dead they and gored they already are. Like sticking a pin in a poppet. Except it’s a person and not a doll but that’s beside the point. Getting rid of temptation and yielding, something something something.

“Ignore Nathaniel’s art exhibit,” Ichirou says drily from his armchair. “I’m afraid he was deprived of one too many coloring books as a child.”

Kevin’s mouth falls open. He turns to the man. _“Neil?”_

Neil growls something from behind the duct tape that can be anything from, “Damn right it was me,” to, “I have no idea what he’s talking about”. Kevin’s eyes bug.

“Hmm.” The Moriyama lord takes a sip of tea. Because again, they just happened to bring _tea_ to a fucking rescue scene. “The Minyard agent may have helped.”

“Holy—“

The first soldier points to the pristine sofa where Neil and Andrew have obviously been forced to sit still on, if the four guns pointed at their heads isn’t enough of a hint. Kevin’s only noticing it now that he’s up close. But even though they’re still bound, the holsters on Neil and Andrew’s waist are empty. Gun _and_ knife holsters. If he had to bet money, Kevin would guess that the emptiness wasn’t of their own volition. He wonders if they got their toys taken away after whatever the fuck _that_ was in the hallway. Judging by the blood on their dark shirts and pants that Kevin hadn’t noticed when they were separated by distance upstairs, Kevin’s going to say _yeah_.

Jesus Christ, his life is fucking _weird_.

He takes the empty seat between Andrew and Neil. Yep, definitely blood. Not their own, thank god. Andrew stiffens when Kevin sits, awareness on higher alert than ever. As if he could take account of every new cut and bruise on Kevin from this angle alone. Kevin wishes they weren’t taped and bound, needing to hear Neil and Andrew’s voices, to touch their lips with his fingers, to wrap his bones around their bones. Instead, he settles for watching rays of sunlight dance over the cream tile of the floor before jumping to their beautiful, angry faces.

Sunlight, Kevin realizes. Not midnight after all. Could it possibly be the same day?

He’d wanted to have lunch with them.

Neil makes a muffled grunt from behind the tape—the only form of speech he’s really able to make at this point—and, realizing he has no ability to use his arms, throws himself against Kevin. Literally. It’s a full body flounder and Neil’s chin jabs into Kevin’s shoulder, right above one of the stitches. He bites his tongue but can’t hold back the small groan of pain and Neil’s eyes blow wide when he realizes his mistake. Andrew, disregarding the guards, leans his leg over Kevin’s to kick Neil. The soldiers snap at them in tired frustration and Kevin, despite them and the ridiculous picture they all make and the art exhibit from hell waiting in the hallway—or _in_ spite of them all—Kevin starts laughing.

And finally that seems to do the trick. The most inappropriate sound that could be made considering the circumstances drives the chatter in the room to a halt. Ichirou looks up from the biscuit he’s busy dividing into quarters and cocks a brow at Kevin’s outburst.

“I see you are feeling better,” he notes in amused Nihongo.

Kevin wonders what sight he must make to the outside world. Does he hang like the piece of Neoclassic art above the corner desk, uninterpretable but somehow tolerable? Or is he as obvious as the cracks in the ceiling in desperate need of filling?

Neil had once said that art was a form of power. But what is power if no longer wanted? Valued?

Needed?

“You have questions, I am sure,” Ichirou says. He picks up one of the biscuit quarters. “And I—“

“Release them.”

Ichirou blinks. “Pardon?”

“Release them.” Kevin’s voice is still hoarse, raw and low from screaming it away. Not to mention his Japanese is rustier than he realized. But maybe the adrenaline shot permanently fucked up his heart. Because it doesn’t skip a beat making demands of Ichirou. He almost laughs again. Delirium, that awful side effect.

What will you do with me, now? I’m damaged goods, Kevin could say like a taunt, making eye contact with his Lord and Sufferer. You can put me up on the wall. Nail my hands down and hang me.

_God, I am a work of art._

“It’s over. I’m here,” he says instead. Ichirou listens. Ichirou does not interrupt. “Just release them and you can do what you want with me.”

But Ichirou doesn’t take orders from anyone.

“Noble offer,” Ichirou murmurs, almost to himself. The man beside him scratches his chin in thought and Kevin is struck once again by how familiar he is. “But you misconceive. I can _always_ do what I want with you, little warrior. And what I want does not only pertain to you, but to all of you. My brother can attest to this.”

Now it’s Andrew who’s muffling a slew of curses from behind the tape. Kevin wants to touch him, to hide his face in Andrew’s neck like some pathetic attempt at hiding from the world. But Andrew can’t tell Kevin yes like this. And Kevin still can’t quite believe that any of this is real. Possibly half a day ago he was flirting with the man. Only a couple hours and he was being tortured in a way the majority of humanity would never experience. And now he’s here in the aftermath of the end, not fully convinced that it’s over.

Maybe nothing ever ends. Or maybe everything is in a constant state of ending.

Or maybe Kevin needs sleep, and to wake up as final proof that no, he’s not dead, and this isn’t some fucked up version of hell’s waiting room.

Yeah, that.

When Ichirou gestures to the man beside him, remembrance hits Kevin. Kengo Moriyama, Ichirou’s other younger brother. Due to the way Family hierarchy is drawn, Kengo doesn’t have much power in the ways of The Family’s head branch, but instead works on some security council for The Family. Kevin’s only met the man once or twice, years ago when he and Riko had first been partnered together.

Andrew’s muffled cursing doesn’t stop, and Kevin’s intrigue at the blonde’s sudden vexation only grows when Ichirou adds, “Though some of you know him as Ngoek Amayimor.”

From the armchairs, Katelyn and Renee exchange a glance that Kevin can’t read. It almost looks guilty. Neither they nor Matt risk looking at the three on the couch or, more likely, Andrew.

Other than Kevin, Neil’s the only one blinking between Ichirou and the group like he’s genuinely lost. Kevin wishes once again someone would remove the tape so he could talk to Neil and Andrew. Kevin would do it himself, but what would be the point of doing so just to get shot in the head for disobedience and never hear their answers?

“What,” Kevin shakes his head, “is going on?”

“That, Kevin Day,” Ichirou nods, “is precisely what our little chat will cover.” He waves at the three students settled in their chairs. “You’re… _friends_ can fill you in on their roles later. For now, we will focus on prior and future business.”

The way he talks is like some contract itself. Of the time that’s passed since, Kevin’s never forgotten how much he loathed the man and his operations.

But Ichirou does as he says. With painstaking detail, as if they truly are some family reuniting and catching them up to speed, Ichirou and Kengo fill the group in on Family Operations 101. AKA, everything Kevin has totally been out of the loop on, and anything else the others hadn’t happened to know. Because it quickly becomes clear that Kevin has been an outsider to his own fate for a very long time. And while everyone else in the room has been working together more or less, sufficient communication has not been their forte. Go figure.

As it turns out, the reason for Andrew’s brewing eruption rests in the one and only Kengo. Apparently, and as Kengo explains, Kengo is one of the ten council members for a group called the Organization for Criminal Response and Activities. The same group that Andrew, Renee, and Katelyn work for as ‘private contractors’—whatever sort of bullshit euphemism that’s supposed to mean. If anything, at least the weird ‘okra’ comments Andrew’s let slip now make sense.

More importantly, OCRA is a sub-owned by The Family, with enough federal funds cashed in to disguise who’s really pulling the strings. Which means, for all intents and purposes, Andrew’s been working for The Family the whole time. And by the shadow of death covering Andrew’s face, he’s realizing this at the same time as Kevin.

It’s a humbling experience.

Because of their close connections, The Family was able to tip OCRA off to watch for a potential ‘fox’, i.e. target, at Foxborough. Kevin has to ask Ichirou to repeat himself when he says this. He didn’t understand the Lord the first time, barely keeping up with a.) the weight of the truths and b.) that weight spoken in quick Japanese. But it’s quickly cleared up that ‘fox’ is a nickname, which Andrew makes some strangled sound at, and they forge on with undoing the rest of Kevin’s sanity.

Worst case scenario for OCRA and best for The Family, the fox that The Family warned OCRA of would turn out to be a Wesninski—which obviously had been the case. The fact that it had been The Family themself to plop Neil in OCRA’s midst and get their attention was neither here nor there.

And by OCRA, Ichirou means the agents stationed at Foxborough. Kengo, of course, knew what was planned already.

And the plan, Kevin had to admit as he listened, was surprisingly simple. The Family had already possessed Neil after taking him from the Hatford’s hold. A year of debriefing and skills assessment assured the Moriyama’s that Neil was as every bit as cunning and as ruthless as the monsters who’d brought him into the world. From there, The Family need only send Neil off to Foxborough and raise every goddamn OCRA alarm while gaining Day’s attention.

The real question was why they needed OCRA to know at all. That’s what Matt asks at one point who, Kevin also learns, is employed by The Family. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to look at Boyd the same.

But the answer clears more tar. Thanks to the work of some Family insiders undercover in Moscow and Kazan, the Butcher’s straggling empire had plans to retrieve their prince. The most far-fetched rumors claimed that the Malcolms siblings planned to hunt Neil down themselves. So it only took making Neil’s presence at Foxborough known loud and clear long before Neil ever arrived—

First, plant the seeds of thought: _“Did you hear? Ichirou plans on sending the boy to the Academy when he comes of age.”_ Then, cultivate the growing interest: _“The Family wants the Day boy back. Send in one crown, get back two._ ” Finally, nip any doubts in the bud: _“November. November he will arrive. November the Court will be filled.”_

—And voila. Not long after the insiders’ rumors started circulating, Lola and Romero showed up at the Academy, disguised and ready to wait. Kengo also took his own seat as Vice President to watch the events unfold. It wasn’t hard to gain that seat after buying out the old one’s position. Kill two birds with one stone, isn’t that the saying? But this was more than some house nests and pebbles. This was a war between ravens and crows and only one Queen would reign victorious.

So they sent Neil as planned. Neil raised the alarm. It only took a few weeks and suddenly every watchful eye at Foxborough was upon Neil. He gained Kevin’s trust for no other reason than mercy—well, as Ichirou mentioned flippantly. Of course they could have had Kevin back at any time. They could’ve sent a sniper and made Kevin target practice for the hell of it. But The Family wanted Kevin alive, and they wanted to take out as many of the Butcher’s supporters who remained a plague on both their houses, so they allowed Neil to be the bait for Day and for the Malcolms. It was Katelyn who installed the tracking devices on the Malcom’s car and did the digging on the siblings’ potential safe houses.

Even Neil wasn’t informed of the Russian pair’s presence. Ironically enough, the Butcher’s son wasn’t faking ignorance about that aspect. And only quite recently did Ichirou order more measures taken after one of their insider’s voiced concern that the Malcolm’s had turned their eyes on Kevin. Bait turned against bait. Trap set against trap. Dreams stuck within dreams.

“So…” Kevin clears his throat. Renee and Katelyn haven’t once talked the whole time, and Matt’s back to moping in his armchair. The two bound and silenced time bombs next to him are no help either. “That’s it, then? You won. End of story.”

Ichirou smiles and Kevin wishes he would stop that. It’s not a good look. “Oh, dear boy. The story never ends. Today alone we have put down twenty-five rabid dogs. But how many more await tomorrow? How many breed and burn and butcher as we speak now, building their numbers and infecting the masses? There is always more work to be done. Which,” Ichirou’s gaze slides from Kevin to the pair beside him, “brings us to the final point of our discussion.”

Kengo mutters something that has Ichirou’s smile growing edged. “The Butcher may be dead,” the Moriyama Lord continues, “and his inner circle retired, but in a pack of dogs a leader always triumphs. The Wesninski line will be replaced and what ever new empire rises from its ashes must be made to heel. So while they grow and foolishly believe they are ahead, our Family will grow as well. And we will salt and burn anyone who stands in our way.”

Kevin turns to Neil, who won’t meet his eyes. The Butcher’s son, all strung out in shame. The last Wesninski, the last Hatford, the last the last the last. Neil bows his head and Kevin can’t resist the urge this time to reach out, to tether. His scarred hand finds Neil’s knee and, when Andrew knocks his minutely against Kevin’s, Kevin holds on to him too. Like electric currents, like Leonides against the Impossible, Kevin finds some form of bravery to say the words that may very well be his last.

“You can’t kill Neil. I don’t give a shit who his father is. Was. Like I said before, I’ll do whatever you want. But—“

“Kevin,” Ichirou warns. Neil and Andrew kick Kevin for good measure.

“—I won’t be your puppet if you cut my strings. Kill him—fuck, put a finger on him or Andrew and I’ll give you a reason to put me down for good. I won’t—“

“That’s enough.” Ichirou waves a hand and one of the guards holding a 9mm shifts the muzzle to the back of Kevin’s head. But he’s desperate. He has too much to lose. And there’s nothing more dangerous than a man who is both.

“Lord Ichirou, I can not—“

“I said _that’s enough.”_ Ichirou stands and shifts the tie under his collar. Kevin vaguely feels the press of the gun’s mouth at his skull but he doesn’t care. Nothing can faze him right now, not even the look of rage Andrew’s sending Kevin’s way or Neil’s not-so-silent pleading under the tape for Kevin to shut up.

“Rule one, little warrior.” Ichirou holds up an index finger, mouth thin. “Listen closely. Remember that a family is not always forged in blood. Nathaniel, I have mentioned, is due his promotion. What sort of boss would I be to retire him before then?”

Kevin blinks, not yet understanding.

Ichirou doesn’t plan on killing Neil..?

“That’s right, Kevin. Nathaniel is our Family now. And Family, as you know, sticks together.” Ichirou snaps and another soldier in the corner steps forward. Kevin makes to move but Andrew’s ankle is quick to block Kevin. Day turns to the blonde, eyes frantic, but Andrew’s stoic shake of the head has Kevin stilling. Because when he looks back, the soldier is only ripping off the tape at Neil’s mouth. The cuffs stay on.

“Fucking finally,” Neil hisses in English. He turns to Kevin. “Fuck, I asked for the wrong subject. What the hell’s going on? You better not be—”

“As due credit for his hard earned service,” Ichirou ignores Neil’s commentary, “Nathaniel will take up arms as an official Brother.” _Kyodai_. “His failures reflect Family failures. His victories, our victories.

“I have no intentions of losing you either, Kevin,” Ichirou continues. “And certainly not after all the work it took getting you here. Instead, you will return officially and permanently to us. You will accept your lineage and destiny among The Family, and you will share in every failure and victory that this entails. In exchange for your committance, you will never want for anything. You will finish your schooling. You will live to be old and grey and mellow, and you will die in the arms of those who brought you so high.”

Kevin can barely process the words. His whole body aches, his stomach is both jealous of the biscuit Matt’s shoving in his mouth and revolted by such, and he’s never been as mentally and physically exhausted as he is now. In short, he’s overwhelmed. But there’s one thing that Kevin can grab on to.

“So you want Neil’s and my loyalty,” Kevin says, digging his fingers into their thighs almost unconsciously. “But what about Andrew?”

Ichirou hums but it’s Kengo who answers. “Andrew has done a sufficient enough job with OCRA,” he says.

“ _Sufficient_?” Neil repeats, Japanese even more rusty on his tongue. In English: “Did I hear that right?”

“Quiet,” Ichirou snaps. “One more word and I will have that tape replaced with a pankiri.”

Neil fumes but closes his mouth.

“He’s welcome to renew his contract when it expires next year,” Kengo finishes as if the conversation in between never happened.  
  
Ichirou must have waved the order when Kevin was looking at Neil because the same soldier who’d untaped Neil’s mouth does the same for Andrew. 

“And if he doesn’t renew?” Andrew growls, mouth red where the tape had snagged. Kevin’s lungs contract painfully at the clear and confident intonation of the other dialect on Andrew’s lips. What else does Kevin not know about the blonde? What else had been pretend?

“If he doesn’t renew, he and his family are on their own,” Kengo shrugs. “Unless you have ambitions to join my brother’s branch, I wouldn’t dismiss the Organization so quickly. Gottkult is alive and strong back West, and they have no intentions of disappearing soon.”

“You know Japanese?” Neil says, leaning over Kevin and turning to Andrew, who only huffs from Day’s other side.

“OCRA requisite.”

Neil’s eye twitches. “And that didn’t ring any warning bells when you signed up?”

Andrew’s face clouds over once more but he doesn’t add anything. Ichirou nods once, lips tugging up as if their exchange has darkly amused him, before gesturing to them all.

“Do you agree to this, then, gentlemen?” Ichirou says. Kevin would snort if it weren’t so insane. As if there’s anything gentle about them. “To take the seat that belongs to you? To hold up The Family’s name?”

“If we say no,” Kevin says, “we die. What kind of choice is that?”

Ichirou hums. Kevin’s long been checkmate. “A person only comes to accept the limits of their life when it is odds like these at stake. Have you reached your limit, Kevin?”

Kevin scoffs. “I’m not sure I ever will. A queen rules better without self-imposed restrictions.” Not knowing the words for what he plans to say, he switches to English but still keeps Ichirou’s full attention. “Of all things, I didn’t come this far to euthanize myself. Sir,” he adds a second later.

“Kevin,” Neil warns. From Kevin’s other side, Andrew shoulder presses forcefully against Day’s side. But when Kevin looks at them out of the corner of his eyes, he almost dares to hope there may be something resembling pride in their expressions as they watch him.

But he only says, “I won’t say yes if they don’t, though. You can bury our ashes together or you can have us whole as we are.”

“Or you can stop speaking for us before you piss him off more,” Neil hisses. Andrew makes a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh. Neil ignores him. “But it’s yes. We’ll join your band of merry frea-thieves,” Neil coughs at Ichirou’s raised brow before reaching across Kevin’s legs and kicking Andrew’s foot. “Et tu, Andrew. What’s the verdict? Yes or no?”

At first it seems like Andrew isn’t going to respond. He’s statue still, knuckles white where they’re still bound behind his back. But then he’s gritting out a short, “Yes,’ and Ichirou nods.

“Wise decision, gentlemen; I expected no less. I believe that’s all for now. I have men waiting outside. They will transport you to the nearest hotel where you will rest up and spend the night while our comrades rid of any prying eyes.” I.e any news or journalist agencies bound to get their grubby hands on one of them if they don’t lay low for the next day. “Rooms have already been booked and there will be no argument over the matter. If there are no questions, we’ll be in touch soon about further arrangements.”

He’s right; there’s no more argument, and no one gives a crap about asking questions. This isn’t some interview. It’s a trade system and Kevin, Andrew, and Neil just became prime commodity. Of all the things to argue about, a chance to shower and sleep is the last on Kevin’s mind. Ichirou claps and the soldiers move, four flanking he and Kengo as they leave, another ten to walk the rest out. In the hall, other soldiers are already getting to work and cleaning up the ruined manor. There’s buckets and mops laid out, along with several containers of bleach and rags to rid of any stains. The Malcolm’s bodies have already been removed with only a yet to be washed portion of bloodstained floor where they had both been laid. Taking in the sight of such destruction and its aftermath. Kevin’s struck once again by how much he’s learned and experienced in the past hour, the past day. How much he’s lost, how much he’s…

Kevin exhales. The scent of bleach and spilled copper is strong.

That really just happened.

Though the argument can be made it’s an ongoing revelation, the force of the day is really only now starting to hit Kevin. And it hasn’t even packed the full punch that he know it later will once the shock and awe wears off. How anticlimactic an ending to this whole ordeal it seems, and simultaneously, how ravaging. He just signed his soul back to The Family. After everything, the world has turned full circle.

After everything, the world’s still turning.

Oh.

Wow.

Neil doesn’t speak when he slides his arm around Kevin’s back, bandaged palm planting like roots along Kevin’s spine. Neither does Andrew when the blonde clasps his hand to Kevin’s shoulder, firm and steady. They’re not just rooting, but digging down, burying so many memories and emotions and blue and green _relief_ within each other’s soil to come back for later when they’re alone and safe within each other’s hold.

Kevin stops walking only for a moment to say, “This is real, right? I’m not…” Please tell me I won’t have to wake up from this. From you both.

Andrew and Neil pause in their trek too as the group ahead walks on. A couple of the soldiers stop with them and grumble about moving along but they easily ignore it.

“You’re awake,” Neil whispers, hand squeezing the nape of Kevin’s neck in understanding. “Even now, when it feels like you’re not.’

Kevin closes his eyes. ‘Awake’, but this feels like a dream. His eyes are always open when he’s actually in one. So what’s real?

“This is real.” Andrew’s voice, low and flat. Steady. Strong. 

The guards push them forward then and the moment ends but the reality does not. What’s the most surprising of it all is the threads glowing bright between the sun on high and the men alongside him as they’re continued to be marched out of the massacre manor. Invisible strings of light, of hope, of survival. Dangerous, disquieting strings. But nevertheless real, tethering themselves at the base of Kevin’s soul and threading through each of Neil’s and Andrew’s bones. Singing, despite them all, the impossible truth.

They’re alive. They’re alive.

Holy mother of fuckery incarnate.

_They’re alive._

III.

They’re given separate rooms.

Kevin shuts the door to his without fully realizing it, back pressed against the door as if he can avoid the silence of solitude for as long as he steps no further in. It’s a plain if larger than necessary room. Kitchen and living area in the front, complete with a bathroom that’s larger than Kevin’s dorm at Fox before leading into a sleeping area. Its like Ichirou had booked whatever suites the hotel had available without caring about the uselessness of doing so. Kevin doesn’t need a suite; he’d gladly take the pullout couch and maybe a bottle of Hennessy while he’s at it. Anything to forget. Anything to escape. But he no longer drinks and of all things, he deserves to indulge in a goddamn California king, so he flops onto the too soft mattress and watches patterns dance on the ceiling, pretending he’ll ever sleep again.

Neil slams the door to his room and cards a hand through his hair. It’s funny how the memory of hotel rooms fade into each other. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. At least, that’s what he thought. The ambassador suite is nothing close to anything he ever stayed at when on the run with Mary. While they had considerable savings on hand at any given time, they’d never been stupid or prideful enough to waste hundreds just to sleep on a bed or use a shower. And this room…he can’t even imagine how much this would cost per night. Three grand? Four? Neil blows an affronted breath of air out at the walk in shower large enough to hold more people than is appropriate, complete with a marble clawfoot in the corner and overhead rain shower system. Who in the world deems all this necessary just to scrub some blood and grit off, Neil will never know. He kicks the clawfoot for good measure and pretends he didn’t possibly break a toe in the process.

Andrew, well. Andrew’s not alone for one minute before he’s ripping the place a new one. Wine glasses in the cabinet meet the cherry oak walls. A gilded blown lamp is introduced to the full length mirror. A desk chair is politely acquainted with the television screen. First impressions fulfilled, Andrew scrounges up a bottle of Greenore hiding in the lounge’s mini bar and drinks until he’s sick of that too, smashing the bottle against the counter and cursing up a storm when a piece of glass lodges itself into his hand. Now he’s pretending to be Neil. Fuckin’ A.

The guards positioned outside each of their adjoined doors ignore the urge to check in on them. Boss said only to intervene if they’re killing each other. What to do in the event of them killing _themselves_ , however, was not mentioned in the briefing. So they stand at attention and pray that whatever nuclear bomb is dropping in rooms 448 and 449 won’t come back to bite them in the asses.

And somehow, none of the guards are surprised when the blonde and auburn disasters vacate their rooms sometime later and demand to enter 447. Of all things, they were warned about this.

The blonde one is bleeding. The wound isn’t even wrapped.

“Get out of our way.”

“No,” guard number one says to the pair. “No visitors allowed.”

“Funny,” Neil muses. “I don’t remember asking.”

“Boss’ orders,” guard number two pipes up. Andrew imagines snapping the man’s vocal cords like breaking a recorder over his knee. It’s cathartic. “You’re not allowed into each other’s rooms.”

They wouldn’t be bothering with the jackasses if it weren’t for the fact that their adjoined doors had been sealed. Without the actual card key, which none of them had been given, or a literal bomb, it was next to impossible to get into the other rooms.

Andrew considers. “Are there video cameras up here?”

Guard number three narrows her eyes. “Yes, but they’ve been de-stabilized, of course. The Boss would never compromise—“

“ _Kei_ ,” guard one hisses.

Andrew almost smiles. Almost. “Ding, ding, ding. Found the rookie.”

“What?”

Faster than any of the guards can stop him, Andrew’s dislodged one of his blades. Ichirou never gave back the weapons he ordered removed from their persons back at the manor, but of course the soldier who’d patted Andrew down missed the thin paring knife on his inner thigh. The soldiers who are now standing before them reach for their own weapons just as quickly but halt in confusion when Andrew slices the dagger across his leg, cutting skin and fabric all at once.

“What the fuck—“

“I can’t believe you attacked one of OCRA’s most honored agents,” Neil tsks at the first guard, who’s hand is frozen between his walkie-talkie and hip. “And newest recruit to The Family, no less.” Not really, but one lie never hurt anyone. Right? “I’ve seen Ichirou shove stakes through people’s asses for less, did you know?”

Neil’s faux-astonished tone drips into the faces of the guards. Andrew smears his already bloodied hand across his check. But the first soldier seems to snap out of his shock first and reaches to turn on his communication device.

“Andrew,” Neil says calmly and Andrew nods.

“Stop him!” the third guard yells. It drives the other two into motion, halting the first guard’s attempt to request back-up for the time being. Because Andrew’s turned the blade on Neil and heading straight for the throat and suddenly the guards’ order to keep the tiny bastards from killing each other has come to actually _mean_ something.

“What the hell is—Bordel de merde. What are you doing to them?”

The exclamation from the sixth voice has everyone stopping in their tracks. The third guard has her arms around Neil, pulling him away from Andrew who’s busy being tackled by the other two. Andrew may as well be foaming at the mouth with the addition of two other foreign bodies on top of him, but that’s the thing about sacrifice. It gets the job done.

“Mister Day,” the second guard huffs from the floor. Andrew jabs his elbow into the man’s neck and he chokes out a curse.

“Are you…” Kevin shakes his head from the doorway. “I’m calling Ichirou. You’ll pay for this.”

“Wait—oh God,” the first guard groans. Of course. The fucking assholes. With Minyard’s blood now staining the hotel’s floor, along with Kevin’s word, there’s no way the Boss won’t see this as a fault on the guards. Even if Ichirou has every idea that this started with the three men, Kevin will be believed. “Don’t call, please. You can—“

Another jab to the throat, and now the first man’s choking in strangled pain. Andrew growls. “Let us up,Scheißkerl.”

Thirty seconds later, Kevin’s closing the door once again, now to the out of breath and royally pissed off faces of the guards. He crosses his arms and presses his back once more to the doors and watches Andrew and Neil take in the sight of his room. It’s immaculate, a straight parallel of their own, minus the broken glass and ransacked cabinets. Andrew pauses near the desk and turns to face Kevin. His face and pants are smeared with blood.

“Don’t bleed on my floor,” Kevin says to him. “What the fuck happened out there?”

Neil coughs but he won’t face Kevin. “They wouldn’t let us in. Had to get creative.” He looks at Andrew. “I didn’t expect you to attack me, though,” he tells the blonde with narrowed eyes. “Give a guy a warning next time, if you would.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Creative,” Kevin repeats. He eyes Neil’s bandaged hand and Andrew’s bloody spectacle before sighing. Neil had told Kevin in the ride over what had happened after Kevin’d been taken. Neil didn’t have much of a choice. Minutes after they’d all piled into one of The Family van’s, Katelyn answered a call from Aaron that couldn’t have been more ridiculous in its horror if the universe tried. Nicky was in the hospital and, by a possible miracle, stable for now. Neil relayed in a hushed whisper albeit some details, mostly for Andrew’s sanity, what he had seen that morning, what Romero had done, how Neil had found the address to where Kevin was taken. Now that, that was creative. Kevin would’ve thrown up if he hadn’t already lost all that was in his stomach throughout the afternoon’s events.

One of Nicky’s lungs, Aaron had relayed over the phone, had collapsed from the harsh position he’d been tied to the tree. Both wrists were broken, and there was a possible chance he’d suffer some sort of brain damage from the blunt force trauma.

But he’s alive. He’s alive, and Aaron could barely stop crying over the phone long enough to tell them. Andrew didn’t once speak while Katelyn and Aaron conversed over speaker phone. Renee had clutched Matt’s hand and Neil almost reckoned they were praying together, if not for the fact Matt had quite obviously been restraining Renee from jumping out of the van and going to finish what Andrew and Neil had started on the Malcolm’s corpses.

Andrew didn’t speak until Aaron’s voice, broken and wobbly, came through the phone saying, “Is my brother there?”

“Yes,” Katelyn had answered, side eyeing Andrew. They held the phone closer to Andrew as if to offer he take it, but Andrew didn’t. “He can hear you.”

“Andrew, I...” Aaron’s voice broke off. Kevin had heard the sound of enough muffled sobs to guess how the other Minyard was fairing. Kevin thought of Nicky’s warm smile, Nicky’s inappropriate jokes snickered at odd hours of the morning when they were both struggling to stay awake to study. Nicky whispering the Ave Maria again and again in the middle of the night when he thought Kevin was asleep, trying in vain to sleep as well when his own nightmares forced him awake. Nicky hugging Kevin and Aaron in the hospital’s waiting room when Andrew had almost overdosed. Nicky putting on a brave face when his whole world tilted on its side.

Not so strangely, Kevin decided he wasn’t feeling much better than Aaron must be.

And that’s when Andrew grabbed the phone, knuckles clenched whiter than bone. His face wasn’t its usual mask but fractured porcelain, chips and cracks desperately trying to stay together. And somehow, that unsuccessful attempt made everything worse.

“Take care of him,” Andrew had demanded. It felt almost wrong to hear, something not meant for other listeners. His voice was strained, fruitlessly grabbing at a cliff edge that had no intention of saving them both. Gravity, always the sole winner.

And then Andrew was shoving the phone back, near throwing it. Take care of him because I can’t right now. Take care of him like he would take care of you. Us. Take care of each other because the world sure won’t.

They hadn’t told Aaron why there were all off campus. He would know soon enough. Not all of it. Never the whole story. No one ever learns the whole story unless they’re dead.

“We should’ve asked you first,” Neil is saying in the present. And it’s sudden enough to startle Kevin’s attention back to what’s happening now.

Kevin raises a brow, lips pursed. Almost unconsciously, he presses himself further into the door. As if trying to hide, trying to camouflage himself with what’s inanimate, what’s lifeless. “What?”

“Do you want us here?” Neil clarifies. “I—Fuck. You probably don’t want to see us right now.” He scrubs a hand over his face, shoulders stubbornly high like the last of Atlas’ willpower is hanging on.

But Kevin only laughs to himself and it’s a wretched sound. “Only you two would start a melee before thinking through what comes next.”

Andrew isn’t impressed. “Is it yes or no, Kevin?”

Yes or no. Yes or no. Like a broken record player, it’s yes or no. When all else fails, surety is Andrew’s last lifeline.

And holding on for dear life is Kevin’s.

His head hits the door, dropping back in defeat. “You know it’s yes.”

“Should it be?” Neil says. When Kevin looks at him, Neil won’t meet his eyes, running his hand along the fabric of the couch instead. It reminds Kevin of Neil’s hands running against his chest at Witherspear and—

Kevin inhales suddenly. Oh god, was that really only last night? It’s almost impossible to think; how many lives, how many revolutions he’s lived through since yesterday and yet not even a whole turn of the sun has passed.

“Should it be what?” Kevin whispers.

Neil shakes his head. Andrew’s no help; he may as well have looked Medusa in the eye. “After everything…” Neil’s eyes fill. Not with tears but emotion, though some would argue that’s the same thing. “Don’t you hate me?”

Don’t you want to rip me apart?

Kevin’s not sure when it turned from _us_ to _me_. Nor is he sure how he ended up here, in this life, in this room like some long lost traveler who hitchhiked too far. He doesn’t know where to begin with Neil’s question. How do you hate a shooting star? How do you explain that it’s impossible to even try? Watching the final fall of Neil’s shoulders, Atlas shutting down, Kevin feels like he’s in mourning for someone who’s still alive. Maybe it’s himself. Maybe the only way we’re reminded we’re alive is when we grieve, and how self-aware we are is when we turn that grief inward.

Kevin’s wounded chest aches when he lifts himself off the door. “I can’t even entertain that question, Neil.”

“But—“

There’s opinions about love. That either it’s a choice, or it’s an inescapable feeling out of our control. For Kevin, it’s always been both, though to say _he’s_ in control would be as premature to say the earth chooses to orbit the sun. Maybe it’s a choice but it’s certainly not his own. Possibly more the whims of some Fates or string workings of the universe. If anything, it’s chance and choice entangled together like cogs on a wheel, spurring him onward toward Andrew and Neil’s path.

He can’t choose to hate them anymore than he can change the color of his eyes. The notion’s ridiculous.

“Neil, I…” But in no possible way can Kevin put such intentions to words.

Neil’s not done. “I’m trying to tell you I wouldn’t blame you. If you despised me.” He shakes his head. “They could have killed you. And it was my fault—“

“Stupid,” Kevin murmurs. “You can be so stupid sometimes. Don’t finish that sentence. Je jure devant Dieu, you’ll break my heart.”

If Neil’s tears were the fountain of life, Kevin thinks he and Andrew would live forever. “I haven’t already?” he near scoffs.

Kevin doesn’t dare look at Andrew. Staring into one sun is enough; two may just burn him up for good. “You’ve only ever mended it.”

Kevin’s too tired for this, for battling each other with words when they’ve never been the enemy. And that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Neil thinks himself the enemy. And they’re all so goddam alike, Kevin wouldn’t be surprised if Andrew isn’t far behind. The blonde’s silence says enough. Kevin knows regret. Kevin knows Andrew claims not to bother with it. But Andrew can say whatever he wants; it doesn’t change the truth.

Somewhere along the way as Kevin stepped from door to couch, Kevin’s fountain has joined Neil’s and eternity has never felt so near. He wants them all to just be okay again. What does Neil always say? ‘Fine.’ Good lord, ‘fine’ sounds like heaven at this point. “Embrasse moi, je t'en supplie,” Kevin whispers. His hand reaches forward, shakily, before curling back in on himself at Neil’s startled expression. As if he can’t believe Kevin could stand the thought of their heartbeats so close. But Kevin’s close to begging, an ant before god. _Make me immortal with a kiss._

“I can’t.” Neil’s voice is so low Kevin’s practically lip-reading. Andrew closes his eyes.

Selfish. Kevin wants to be selfish. Just once. Just for this. “Why can’t you?”

“Because if I touch you,” Neil says, tears marking a path back to the start of it all, “I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

“Don’t then,” Kevin pleads. Fuck the sun—Icarus burned so why shouldn’t he? It’s tense, the tendrils of ozone crackling between them all before the lightning hits, and then rain and bodies and wind and lungs are stretching for one another for purchase. Kevin turns to Andrew at the same time Neil lunges forward, and within a breath the dams collapse, floodgates unleashed, and the End meets the beginning meets the End meets their reaching hands, finding eternity in the heartbeat of the next.

_“Ne t'arrête jamais._ _”_

Andrew presses his palm over Kevin’s heart, laced with Neil’s. Day’s pulse is frantic, hard and full. Just like their’s.

Alive. Alive _. Alive._

•

There’s so much to say and yet not enough energy to speak half of the things they should. Maybe the Fates were too curious of how many truths they’d tucked inside themselves, a Pandora’s box to unwrap and loose unto the world and each other. So curious they had no choice but to spin the thread a little further, turn the wheel once more. Grant the three one last reprieve and let their history write another tale. They had all the time in the world to talk of truth and lies and every fable in between. And at some point they’ll get around to it as all survivors must.

But for now, some showers and meals are in order.

After the guards deposit a cart of food and drinks to their room, along with a fresh serving of death glares, they eat in relative silence. Kevin finishes quickly, not sure how much he can safely stomach, before taking the bathroom first. But he spends more time studying the patchwork of cuts and bruises on his body than he does washing up. While Andrew and Neil covered his stitches with a combination of waterproof dressing and clean plastic bags taken from the hotel’s trash bins, the hot water still burns every inch of him. So he turns the shower dial higher until the whole world may as well be on fire. He hisses, head dropping back against the shower’s wall, and imagines the falling water is the same rain that flooded the earth.

That’s how Andrew finds him later, silent sobs racking through Kevin’s chest as the last of the blood and dirt washes down the drain. Somewhere along the way the rain became Kevin’s own downpour to contend with. And once he breaks, he wonders if he’ll ever get himself back together. He doesn’t even know what’s worse: the relief or the pain or the memories or the future. His whole body aches but what’s happened seems as frightening as what’s to come. He’s back in The Family’s hold. He’s back at the start. A labyrinth without end.

Andrew doesn’t speak when he turns the spray’s heat setting down, inferno swapped for tolerable. The steam from the shower has fogged all the mirrors and he can’t see Andrew’s no doubt hardened expression when Kevin turns his head away.

“Kevin…”

Day shivers with the temperature change, plastic crinkling as he crosses his arms across his chest. It’s not that he’d rather Andrew not see him like this, because fuck knows how many times they’ve both come undone before each other: in so many pieces that all the king’s horses and all the queen’s men could only pretend to put them together again.

It’s just, he’d rather not be like this at all. He’s tired of being shattered. He’s tired of feeling the brunt of the world and her woes.

It’s an over-exhausted statement, but he’s simply tired of being tired.

“Oui ou non, Kevin.”

Kevin mumbles an affirmative and watches Andrew pull off his shirt. It seems unnecessary to take that off and leave on the jeans, as Andrew does, seeing as the man’s still got that cut across his thigh from earlier in the hall. But Kevin can only smile sadly at one of Andrew’s many quirks as peculiar as Kevin’s own.

“Where’s Neil?”

“Still moping.” Andrew doesn’t step inside the shower yet, rubbing his upper lip in thought as he stares unseeingly at the wall.

Kevin considers that. _And it was my fault._ The thought of those words alone, Neil’s broken expression, convinced that the evils of another were his to blame…

Kevin wipes his eyes with the flat of his hand. It’s useless; the water from the shower just replaces his tears. He’s glad for the steam, not wanting to see his surely puffy face.

_Pull yourself together, Day. The world won’t do it for you._

“Call him in,” Kevin tells Andrew. “I want…If he wants to…” Fuck it. He can’t think right now. He doesn’t want to.

“You have a voice, Kevin,” Andrew reminds him, though not cruel.

Even if he tried, Kevin can’t keep the emotion out of his eyes when he looks at Andrew. “I like your’s better.”

“Idiot,” Andrew hisses. But he does as Kevin said (asked) before reaching forward to touch Kevin’s cheek lightly, finger skimming the first line that forms the X, but not lingering as he travels down to Kevin’s lips. His private affection is indiscriminate of scars and skin.

“What?” Neil’s voice calls out from outside the bathroom.

Andrew doesn’t look away from Kevin. “Komm herein.”

There’s a pause and then Neil obeys, muscles tense and making it more than obvious he doesn’t know where to look. His eyes jump from Andrew’s face to Andrew’s bare chest, then to the wall and certainly not anywhere near Kevin. The guilt in Neil’s eyes hasn’t left, hadn’t even while they were eating, and Kevin aches for the moment it finally does.

_You could’ve died._ Stupid words. Kevin could have a heart attack any day of the week with these two. One wrong uber ride could leave him dead in a ditch. Abby could murder him the second he gets back to campus for missing so much practice. Death is constant. Spontaneous. Inevitable. Yeah, Kevin could have died. But he didn’t, and if Kevin needs to pull himself together, so does Neil. So do they all.

Okay, maybe he won’t say _that_ out loud. He’s not that much of an asshole.

But. Point stands.

“What do you need?” Neil crosses his arms, now finding great interest in the tile next to Kevin’s head.

At one time, it may have been a simple question. But there’s no simple answer to this. Words leave Kevin, and all the man can think is the day in Court Square when Andrew raised blasphemous hands to the sky and Neil and Kevin watched in adoration. How angry Kevin had been then, ignorant to all that Andrew had sacrificed for Kevin’s safety; how uncertain he’d felt, confused about the strings Fate had wrapped around them all. Neil prophesying with their god, begging not be pushed for answers he couldn’t give.

The world had been just as disordered that day as it is now, but Kevin feels hollow in a way he’d never been aware of before.

“To feel whole,” Kevin answers. An altar prepared before them. “Just wanna feel whole again.”

Neil’s eyes fall shut at that, a full body shudder overtaking his body. “You always were. You don’t need—“

“Life’s too short not to need other people,” Kevin interrupts.

Neil inhales and Andrew’s there then, a whisper in Neil’s ear before Neil’s nodding, muscles tightening before going slack when Andrew kisses him softly. He pulls Neil’s shirt off and throws it aside, and Neil meets Kevin’s eyes over Andrew’s shoulder when Andrew kisses his neck. The latter says something again into Neil’s skin and Neil answers once more. Kevin’s adoring sigh matches the shiver that goes through Neil when Andrew delivers a third kiss to Neil’s collarbone, violently tender, over an old bullet scar. Their hands meet, bandage against bandage, self-infliction against self-infliction. The blonde travels further down and it’s no time before Andrew fully undresses Neil and turns off the bathroom’s main lights. Without the artificial glow Kevin’s head no longer pounds as violent. He doesn’t need light to see them, to know them. He doesn’t need to see at all, but to breathe them in and never let go. Andrew and Neil step inside the shower, the former still with his jeans that are going to be a bitch to take off later, lukewarm spray turned hot again.

Andrew turns the temperature down for the second time. “Stop trying to cook us, Day.”

Kevin’s lips spasm. He breaks into a rueful smile the second his seams break as well. But he’s not alone. They’re all falling apart in so many ways. There’s only so much trauma the human body is equipped to handle. How do you survive these things, if not yourself? How do you fall apart just right so there’s enough intact pieces to glue back together?

Timagoras and Meles. Rocks and cliffs. And the gods who experienced it all.

You don’t fall alone.

Kevin won’t remember every detail of this moment when the years pass into eternity, so he vows to burn as much as possible into the etchings of his soul. Neil’s hands running through Kevin’s hair, soap and sorrow washing away with the water; Andrew’s lips to Kevin’s shoulders, Neil’s hands, reminding them both that gods are mortal too; steam clouding the present, tears cleansing the past. Kevin won’t feel whole today, and maybe not for a while. But what they have for now is enough. Because despite the odds, despite the world, they’re

Alive _. Alive. Alive._

•

There’s a peculiarity to hotel rooms.

Even those as ostentatious and grand as this one. White walls that mock you, mold you. Stuffy carpets, heavy curtains. A bed that’s welcomed more people than you could ever hope to trust, disgraced by all of the above. How nothing can ever truly start in these rooms, how nothing can end. How every second is every hour. How now is the Between.

How nothing is as it seems.

Maybe that’s the only universal human experience, hotel rooms. How foreign we are to even ourselves once inside, how understood we are in memory. _I can be no one here,_ the man thinks, scabs and skin reflected in the mirror as objective as the detached wall art. _I can be nothing at all._

But there’s no reprieve for the living. Because all who are alive are something worth being, something worth knowing. For good or ill, and Kevin’s feeling more of the latter lately. He rummages through the bag one of the soldiers, the medic that stitched him, had left for him. Another change of clothes— _where is it, where is it?_ —a toothbrush— _no toothpaste, where_ is _it?_ —socks because in an emergency apparently _that’s_ necessary—

“Kevin.” Neil’s hand hovers next to his waist. Careful, like a man trying to calm a skittish horse. Kevin’s fingers clench around nylon.

“Can’t find it.”

That’s not what Neil means. Kevin turns, flipping through the bag once more as if what’s not there will just appear from desperation alone. He doesn’t realize the tremors in his hand have spread full-body until Neil admits defeat and clasps his palm over Kevin’s shoulder. “ _Kevin_. Stop. Let us help.”

“It’s not here. I’m supposed to use it after, after I shower—“ or was it before? Which was it the medic had said? “But it’s not—“

“Here.” From the bathroom doorway, Andrew holds up the small cylinder of Neosporin. With an aborted groan Kevin holds out his hand to accept the tube, knowing and trying to ignore how pathetic he must seem. Can’t even keep track of one tiny thing.

But Andrew only shakes his head and motions toward the bed for Kevin to sit.

“I can do it myself.”

Andrew’s unfazed. “Didn't ask.”

“Andrew—“

“Kevin."

To be fair, Kevin’s hands are shaking so much he probably couldn’t unscrew the healing ointment if he tried. When he sits, uncomfortably sinking into the soft give of the mattress, a memory flashes unbidden of an achingly similar moment that could have been a lifetime ago. Arriving back at Foxborough, cheek and conscience torn anew. Andrew unwrapping the bandage on Kevin’s face where the sutures lay, the only thing keeping his self-mauled skin intact. Fingers, strong and calloused and certainly not Kevin’s, smoothing in the prescribed lotion over the stitch marks.

“Gonna need more foundation,” Kevin joked/jokes.

Memory and moment colliding, Kevin shudders again under the unimpressed eyes he meets. But this time is different; microscopic details that feel macro. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Now, it’s a bandage on his shoulder being removed. Another above his heart, one below a rib. Not one pair of hands but two, unraveling the gauze and replacing it once more. He’s ceramic shards and they’re the kiln. They set him on fire and piece him back together as if scraps like him are worth another start.

“You’re doing good,” Neil murmurs to Kevin when Andrew unwraps another roll of gauze. Not from his pocket this time, but from another bag the medic had left. Fuckers thought of everything.

Kevin could preen at the praise. But instead he corrects, “Well.”

“What?”

“Not ‘good’. It’s—“

Andrew pinches him. “Shut up.”

“The fact you have the energy to even go there…” Neil shakes his head, astounded. “Bastard.”

Kevin thinks of a dusty ballroom, knives that gleam under artificial light, ravens in his head. Neil’s face falls when he sees the salty drops tracking their way down Day’s face.

Jesus Christ, he must be dehydrated by now.

“Sorry,” Kevin tries to laugh. It hurts like a chest wound. Reaching for a bottle of water on the nightstand, he bats Neil’s hand away when the latter tries to help uncap it. “Just, um. Overwhelmed. Kinda can’t believe que je suis ici. That you’re here, both of you…” Another laugh, more a choke. He gulps down half the bottle. “Fuck, just ignore me. I’m—“

Andrew’s lips tighten where he half kneels on the mattress, holding up a new bandage to apply.

“Never,” Neil says. He blinks, his expression shuttered. “That’s never going to happen. We’re here. We’re not leaving. Not anymore.”

Kevin’s eyes brim with that dangerous poison. Hope. Or maybe disbelief. “No more running?”

Neil looks from Andrew to Kevin. “No more running. Net nikakikh prichin. I’m…We’re already home.”

Kevin exhales a breath he didn’t mean to hold. His head falls to rest against Neil’s stomach, Neil’s arms reaching forward to cradle Kevin to him where the fox stands in front of the Queen. Their soldier, their fortress, their patron god finishes up with the bandages with Neil’s occasional help.

And maybe they aren’t gentle, exactly. But nor are they unmoved, in that show of uncertain tenderness only domesticated beasts can provide. Their hands reform the valleys of Kevin’s skin; fingers tracing canyons and chasms so close to home. A pulse on the wrist, on the neck, on the lips where they offer a kiss or other sacrificial offering of comfort before they move to tend to their own injuries with Kevin’s aid.

Eyes falling closed under the lull of their ministrations, Kevin becomes nothing, no one at all, but a soul bleeding into skin and shelter and aching to remain in this Between forever.

Because what he has now is not much. But quite still, he has more than he ever thought he would, and much more than he thought he’d live to see and hold mere hours ago. Neil’s lips under Kevin’s throat, sweet air in his lungs. Andrew’s palm over Kevin’s heart, cold water in the desert. Kevin’s own blood, strong and steady in his veins. A hope that sings like a bluebird’s screams he’s

Alive. Alive. Alive.

•

For the first time since he can remember, Kevin sleeps without dreams. He’s woken frequently, not quite able to stay under for long. Whether it’s Neil next to him on the bed, shifting even minutely in his sleep, or Kevin’s own restless bones unable to stay put for long, Kevin finds himself waking to the dark patterns on the ceiling, or to the glow of Andrew’s cigarette where the blonde looks out the open balcony windows, or to Neil’s collar where Kevin’s tucked around. The third time he wakes, cheek pressed into Neil’s neck, Kevin’s reminded of a picture he’d once seen in a manuscript on Pompeii: two figures wrapped around each another in one last, desperate search of comfort before the End. He muses in the shelter of the dark that they’re those people stranded before the apocalypse takes hold, clinging for comfort despite what comes next.

“Andrew,” Kevin whispers.

A silent drag, an exhale of smoke. Andrew stubs the cigarette out and flings it out the window.

“You should sleep,” Kevin murmurs. He’s careful not to wake Neil, holding his breath when the latter’s eyelids flutter in their slumber. “I can take the couch if you—“

“Shhhh.” Andrew lifts an index to his lips, almost childish in the act. He walks over to the bed and leans over until his face is just above Kevin’s, hands digging into the soft mattress underneath. Even with the nicotine, Kevin can still smell the traces of bergamot left on Andrew’s skin from the shower earlier.

“Lay with us?”

Andrew’s gaze jumps between Neil’s and Kevin’s faces. He’s in no hurry to tear his eyes away from their shared survival.

The slight moonlight that’s filtered in the room through the open window illuminates the shadows under Andrew’s eyes and Kevin finds himself reaching for Andrew without making the conscious decision to do so. But Kevin hesitates. His hurt doesn’t excuse more hurt. Sensing the hesitation, Andrew nods his head once, lips forming consent. His eyes fall closed at the first press of Kevin’s hand against his cheek, the lines in Andrew’s forehead disappearing when Kevin hums in content.

When he joins the pair on the bed, Andrew doesn’t bother pulling the sheets back but lays on top of them instead. His chest aligns with Kevin’s back, pausing before closing the distance and clasping his hand around Neil’s arm. Three heartbeats revel then, beating as one in the dead of night.

_Alive. Alive. Alive._

IV.

The next time he wakes, it’s to an empty bed.

Beside him where Neil had lain, the sheets are rumpled back, mattress flat and devoid of heat. The other side of Kevin is no different. He splays his fingers against the soft cushion and presses in like he can still feel their forms bracketing him in. But he’s long since believed in magic so he resolves to push himself up and peer around the room for them instead.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the semi-dark room. Once they do, the reason for his solitude is clear. He finds Andrew and Neil sat outside on the balcony, opting for the harsh concrete to reside rather than the cushioned sofas still wet with melted snow.

Spring approaches. Kevin huffs and internally shakes his head, all wonder and disbelief.

Maybe some miracles do exist.

A clock on the wall (unfortunate, but not a cuckoo, thank fuck) tells him it’s just past midnight. Though he doesn’t join them on the balcony just yet, he doesn’t feel like an outsider either when he leans against the wall before the sliding door, content to soak their vision in like a man long devoid of color. They either don’t notice him yet or they do and leave it to him to approach. Sharing a parliament and speaking in low enough tones that Kevin only knows they’re talking from the facial expressions Neil makes, they sit close but a breath apart.

There’s a familiarness to it. Like they’ve done this a thousand times in a thousand other lives. Like they could die today and be reborn tomorrow only to grow into some other version of themselves that will lead them here, to this very moment, this very sight. The brush of knuckles when Andrew passes the cigarette; Neil’s tired smile found not in the lips but in the laughter lines around his eyes. An exhaled question, an inhaled answer. Lips on skin, a smoke shared kiss. Closer still, and still that breath. It’s not a cliff edge that separates them, it’s not a chasm to separate two self-sustaining islands. It’s the air that fuels the flame, oxygen to feed the inferno.

Kevin thinks that’s appropriate; watching them is like watching a match catch alight, the naturalness to it. A beautiful catastrophe impossible to ignore. Impossible to escape.

And if that makes Kevin the fucking moth then so be it.

Neil makes another face at something Andrew’s saying. Mouth parted, parliament tilting where it rests between tongue and lower lip, Neil’s chest hitches as he listens. He gives no other sign he’s affected though Kevin wonders just when he started being able to read Neil so well. Then the cigarette’s being passed again, a wisp of smoke unfurling around Neil’s nostrils, and Kevin thinks he better go back to sleep than interrupt them. 

And then Neil’s eyes catch Kevin’s, and the auburn waves.

When he was younger, Kevin once had a dream to stand at the top of the world. It was one of those fantastical dreams to amuse himself as he lay awake at night, not any realistically ambitious nor sleep-inspired notion. But it wasn’t Everest he considered reaching, no mere mountaintop, but the literal top most edge of the earth where the vacuum of space meets the earth’s atmosphere. Where the last possible chance of life finds the first taste of the impossible. Where man confronts gods. Where gods become men.

Stepping through the sliding door now, Kevin feels like he’s in some way accomplished that dream. That the barrier between room and balcony is oxygen and space and he’s a goner for Neil and Andrew’s gravitational pull. Maybe life is one expansive dream and it’s only the End that wakes us. And if that’s the case, Kevin envies the wakeless, the eternal dreamers: stuck in the Between but not trapped. Forever confronting god, forever becoming man. Constantly ending and always starting but never, never stopping.

Kevin steps through the door. But it’s impossible to say if it is he who confronts them, or if they confront he. Perhaps both can be true.

_I am nothing,_ his reflection in the glass door says, _and Nothing is as it seems._

But gods are not worshipped for nothing and so Neil extends a hand, an olive branch, a sacrificial limb. He entwines their fingers and pulls Kevin back into orbit. It’s cold out, though not enough to freeze, and Kevin considers running back inside for a blanket of some sort. But he never gets a chance because then Neil’s shifting to where his head is on Kevin’s lap, feet kicked out across Andrew’s, and Andrew’s rare unmasked expression has frozen Kevin in place. To say he’s smiling would be rash. At least, it’s no smile understood by mortal men. Because the relief of the day’s unfolding, the calm in the midst of an endless hurricane, is not found in Andrew’s lips—never so obvious—but in the eyes, those stained glass windows to the soul.

“What’re you talking about?” Kevin asks. Not a demand, but building blocks for conversation. Baby steps to bridge eternity to the earth’s edge.

Neil hums a sigh. Kevin can smell the tabacoo in the air, pungent herbs dampened somewhat by the night breeze. He doesn’t resent the tang as much as he would have a month ago, a day ago. So much can happen in a day. It’s almost miraculous, if it didn’t feel so damn destructive.

“Just catching up,” Neil says.

Andrew scoffs low in the back of his throat. “Fox finally explained himself.” He doesn’t add what he himself explained in turn.  
  
“Finally?” Kevin repeats.

“Everything Lord Itchy didn’t get to,” Neil adds. He rakes a hand through his hair, a common enough gesture almost inadequate to write down. But the act is so Neil, so human, and Kevin’s enthralled.

_This is what makes us human._

Heartbeats, beating beating _beating_. Veins and capillaries, pulsing pulsing _pulsing_. Breath on lips, smiles in eyes. Cherry blood and honey lungs. This is what makes us human, Kevin thinks. This is what makes a god.

His gods.

Andrew’s talking again and Kevin pinches himself to listen. “…not my fault, idiot.”

Neil laughs. “As if. You’re the biggest fucking hypocrite if I’ve ever seen.”

“No.”

“Yep.” Neil pops the ‘p’, eyes dancing under moon beam’s when Andrew’s cheeks warm. Kevin wouldn’t be surprised if ‘catching up’ was mostly just this argument repeated in circles. “You had the nerve, Monsieur Minyard, to call me a liar. _Me_. And you…”

“I was doing a job,” Andrew mutters, face falling more serious.

Neil’s lips quirk, muscles lax but expression just as sober. “So was I.”

“Doesn’t make what we did right,” Neil adds after a moment. He doesn’t sound regretful; far from it. He states the words like the solution to a math problem. _The integral of cosine two-mistakes is one half disaster sin two-fatalities plus another wrong decision…_ yada yada yada.

“So. OCRA, huh?” Kevin murmurs. He plays with Neil’s hair, not quite looking at Andrew and all too aware of the man. Somewhere along the way Kevin’s started to come to terms with the lives they’ve all led that’s just now come to light. The truth hasn’t fully set in but coalesced, like a glaze that hasn’t yet soaked into the cake. It’s just sitting there, in his reach but untouched. He meant what he said earlier; he doesn’t hate Neil, and not Andrew either, not a chance. Sure, he was angry, unbelievably pissed in that moment when he heard the pair talking in the auditorium. The sort of anger when you discover you’re left out of a conversation that directly affects you. Except this conversation had obviously been going on for months and determined the course of their lives. Months without Kevin’s knowledge. Months he knew there was something, _something_ else in every interaction between Neil and Andrew, between Kevin and them. But _what_ that something was, he didn’t know.

And worst of all, like those truths we’re scared to swallow, maybe he wasn’t entirely surprised when he learned the truth. The specifics were a shock, like Andrew’s job, but the generals, like the fact Andrew _had_ this weighty job on the side…

No. No, that’s not surprising. It just leaves Kevin unsteady on his feet when he thinks about the details. Like what— _who_ exactly sent Neil to Foxborough. Why Andrew came to Fox in the first place. Hell, why Andrew _stayed_. Not just because of his family, but because somewhere along the way, Kevin became a part of that family, and then Neil. That all of this started as a requirement but ended as a reason, wrong becoming right. 

Kevin’s heart didn’t care about the reasons the world sent Andrew and him hurtling together; nor did he care the reasons when Neil came shooting along on a collision course for both of them. In a way, Kevin doesn’t care about the why or the how even now. Just that what started was real, and what they now have is too. There’s just no more facades between them.

So, no. The truth hasn’t fully sunk in. But Kevin’s trying to, he’s trying to wrap his mortal head around it. And that might mean having the hard conversations. Hopefully, and if it’s what it takes to get there, they’ll be having these conversations for the rest of their lives. Together. Because that’s how Kevin wants them to stay. If they’ll have him, and he’ll have they.

“Ich hasse Gemüse,” Andrew huffs in response to Kevin’s earlier comment.

Neil chuckles at him. “Shut up.”

Kevin’s hand pauses in it’s decent down Neil’s scalp. “Did you…You understood that,” he realizes. “Since when—wait. So you’ve known German this whole time? What else do you—“ Kevin blinks. “Oh, don’t tell me.” He looks from Andrew to Neil, the first who meets his gaze with a bored look, the latter who’s smirking, amused. “The tutoring was part of your act, n'est-ce pas vrai? You didn’t actually need help?”

Neil turns his head into Kevin’s stomach, unsuccessfully trying to hide his laugh. “Of all things, you’re just now getting that? That was, like, the most obvious.”

A silent mutter of amusement draws Kevin’s attention. He guffaws at Andrew’s pursed lips. “Don’t say it,” Kevin warns.

“I—“

“No.”

“Told you—“

“Andrew, fuck you.”

“Ichhab’sdirdochgesagt,” Andrew finishes under his breath too quickly for Kevin to stop. Neil crumbles into laughter, the trembling of his shoulders sending aftershocks into Kevin’s stomach and up his chest until he’s chuckling too. He blames his easy-surrender on fatigue, and not the contagion of quiet happiness and relief.

“By the way,” Neil says, still laughing, “you accidentally gave me a lesson on condoms once. I know Nicolas Appert is important and all, but I’m pretty sure he focused on a different type of preservative.”

Kevin gapes. “Oh my god, I didn’t.”

“ _‘L'inventeur du préservatif’_ ,” Neil gasps through another full body laugh. “You said it like ten times, I swear to god.”

“And you didn’t think to correct me?”

Neil snorts. “Oh, trust me, I thought about it. And concluded that my version was much more interesting than listening to you moan about 18th century canning methods, merci beaucoup.”

Kevin’s cheeks flush, amusement overcoming a slip of the past. “Stubborn ass,” he says with too much adoration to mean it.

“You know who’s actually stubborn?” Neil says when he’s calmed. “The bastard who’s sending us back to Fox. For someone who claims to care about priorities, bloody fuck he’s got it backwards.”

While he rants, Andrew’s hand cards through Neil’s hair and comes to rest on top of Kevin’s. They must make an interesting picture to the quiet observer. A purple plum boy, back to the cement and eyes to the sky. A tortured Queen to hold him down, a fiery beacon that demands they stay. How peculiar they all are. How contrary to nature they seem.

And by now, you know how that story goes.

But for them, for the insiders to their own tale, they don’t know the end as much as you’ll never experience the beginning. They only have a million moments nestled together and a hope as dangerous as desperate men can be. And maybe they’re just that. Maybe that’s all there’s ever been in the history of everything. Desperate people seeking desperate dreams.

But savagery is not history. It is either the beginning of history or the end of it.

And as desperate as they may be, savagery is not how their history will end.

Cradled in the arms of his men, Kevin knows he’s found something greater than a dream. Because this is not something he must wake up from. Instead of ash and ruin, he’s discovered the gates of heaven at last. But the prophets lied; there’s no omnipotent god waiting for him at the entrance. And even if there were, he’d bypass that sorry excuse for a savior without a second thought.

Because better, heartbreakingly better, it’s Andrew and Neil on the other side. It’s purple plums and cherry blood and full, hopeful, aching lungs.

And if you were to paint their portrait in any recognizable light, you’d probably start with the reds and the purples and the golds. Throw in some blue—moonlight silver, that sky-scape of constellations connecting memory to moment—and just enough green (relief, relief, _relief_ ). And in the end, if you ever get that far, you’d find on your canvas three comets, three shooting stars, three satellites orbiting each other without stop.

And if any one of them were to look at this portrait where the impossible meets the possible, where gods and men are no different than tears washed away with the sea, they would, despite all odds, recognize what it means to be home.

* * *

{a/n here bc I still dk how to put links in the end notes lol,,,, so earlier on in chapter three, I posted a link to a Spotify playlist for titwtwe. [here is the link to the second playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/317jIgiVBOgbEGocyLZV8h?si=UwUGQ6QrTR-isOxpcY9d_g), I hope y'all enjoy this one as much as the first! it's mostly songs that inspired a lot of scenes/lines in part two, or that I listen to while writing titwtwe. ok toodles}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna be honest with you chief. I remember like 2% of canon. I have no idea how kengo, tetsuji, ichirou, and riko are supposed to be related. most likely this fic's version is different from canon bc again I do NOT remember skdhjajsk so uh. have with that what u will. forgive me but like its fic whatevs alskjdsl
> 
> chapter title from 'the weight' by amber run
> 
> also if there is any song u listen to bc of this fic, I beg I beg I beg of u it be ‘lockjaw’ by cook thugless. I have a direct line reference from the song stuck in this chapter and,, urgrhrhhr yall dont understand how much those lyrics slap. Put those earbuds in and vibe Ive had this song on repeat for two years and fought god twice with it playing in the background its a bOP a bop im telling u ok im done klasjhdg
> 
> As a note: my resources and background with the Japanese language is much smaller than my resources for the other languages I have used. This is why I have strayed away from not using direct japanese much and instead referencing that characters are speaking such when would be appropriate. I truly apologize if the translations I *have* used is not accurate, and that also goes for any other translations. 
> 
> References to:  
> Madeline Miller’s, The Song of Achilles  
> Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream Within a Dream  
> Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus  
> Clementine von Radics, Courtney Love Prays to Oregon  
> Lockjaw by Cook Thugless  
> Psalm 23:4  
> Dante’s Inferno  
> Bastille’s The Driver  
> not ~exactly~ a direct reference, tho sorta. anyway also heavily inspired by tj klunes green creek. just wanted to mention that, great series, anaphora of green/relief heavily inspired this chapter
> 
> Translations:  
> Eto zasada: its an ambush  
> Sie und Ihre Spitznamen: you and your nicknames   
> Gospodin Gandon or господин гандон: mister douchabg/asshole (literal definition would be mister condom klasjdhgfjk)  
> Je jure devant Dieu: i swear to god  
> Embrasse moi, je t'en supplie: kiss me, i beg you  
> ne t'arrête jamais: never stop  
> Komm herein: come in  
> Nezumi or 鼠疫: plague   
> Net nikakikh prichin or Нет никаких причин: there’s no reason  
> Ich hasse Gemüse: i hate vegetables  
> n'est-ce pas vrai: isn’t that right?/is that not true?  
> Ich Hab’dir doch gesagt (used without spaces in the text): I told you so  
> L'inventeur du préservatif: the inventor of the condom (he was trying to say of preservatives lol. also I would just like to make it clear I didn't intentionally plan to put two condom jokes in one chapter but apparently my mind was stuck in the gutter and refused to leave lkasjdfhjrkwe oops)


	27. Remember Me When I’m Reborn, As a Shrike To Your Sharp and Glorious Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Milena,  
> I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say, “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.” Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don’t have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.  
> ~Franz Khafa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, plz bear with me. This is the last official chapter, save for a short epilogue, so here’s a little farewell/love letter to y’all. [u may skip to the next paragraph if u dont care kasjhdldks] So. I started writing TITWTWE in march of last year. Since then, a pandemic has swept the world. I finished high school. I have lost people dear to me, but I have also found amazing new people I can call family. All in all, I’m just another speck of dust in the universe thankful to be alive and experiencing the daily ups and downs of existence. Like most stories, I initially decided to write TITWTWE as a way to escape from the craziness. I decided to finish TITWTWE, however, to look the craziness in the eyes and vow I’d complete this fic if it kills me adksjhg. I never planned for the fic to be so long, and I never thought more than like fifty people would read it. But I thought if even one person could find a shred of joy or worthwhile escape in this monstrosity, then everything would be razzle dazzle. And yk what guys??? Yall r so very razzle dazzle. The razzle dazzliest peeps, if I do say so myself. Thank u so so much for reading, commenting, and staying with this fic for so long. If ur a writer, yk how incredibly uplifting it is to see people engage with ur work. Before I took on this fic, the majority of my writing lived in my head. As of completing TITWTWE, I now have a portfolio of original work built up, and im not exaggerating in any way shape or form when I say that interacting with yall gave me the confidence to keep writing. Thank u, from the bottom of my heart. If ur still reading this, mwah. Now go spite the crazy.  
> ~mai  
> ps and for the love of god can u believe i somehow wrote 170k words just drooling over kevin dAY??? like ik im gay and cant do math but where tf r my priorities who allowed this eye—
> 
> Also a ginormous thank u to sophoklesworld for sharing the above summary quote with me I still lose my mind every time I read it.
> 
> Cw: the grief and aftermath of Seth’s death, description of a corpse (description suitable for an open casket, ie not too gruesome), brief allusions to suicide, sort of disrespectful behavior at a funeral (not sure if this needs tagging since it,,, contextually makes sense but better safe than sorry), explicit description of how the Malcolm’s were mutilated (i.e. gore), sexual content in part IV, brief mention of alcohol abuse

I.

_"Do not go gentle into that good night.”_

The day had been a bright one, sun rays woven into the sequestered lawns where the small crowd came to pay their respects. Honeydew waves on one man’s forehead, skin wrinkling against golden threads where he sat, frozen. Light so pale it was vanilla shadow, highlighting every fracture and furrow amongst another woman’s tears.

They are, were, still, in every sense of the word, mourning.

_“Do not go gentle into that good night,_

_Old age should burn and rave at close of day.”_

The subject of their mournsome was not old. He was not gentle. But he was, at the close of day, a corpse in a casket ready to be sent off on his final voyage.

The funeral was not unlike many others.

_“Do not go gentle into that good night,_

_Old age should burn and rave at close of day._

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”_

The light had not yet died for the mourners, but it had very well died for the body in the box. What came first, the chicken or the egg, the darkness or death? Who’s to say but the ones cracked open, shell and sight removed?

Kevin Day, standing amongst the crowd, in line to wish his friend off one last time, wondered if the callouses on his own palm would outlast the skin of the dead. A morbid thought, but Kevin wondered all the same. Who would win when it came to the tests of time? His dead particles or someone’s else’s? Who would breathe the air he’ll leave in his wake, at the wake, when he will no longer wake?

Bryan Seth Gordon would no longer wake.

_“Though wise men at their end know dark is right,_

_Because their words had forked no lightning_

_they do not go gentle into that good night.”_

It’s his turn now, Kevin’s. The man on the bench still sat frozen, wrinkles and weariness clear. The woman standing to the casket’s side never spoke but three words, whispered lowly into the body’s unhearing ear: _Adieu, mon tempête,_ and wouldn’t speak again when asked to offer a eulogy. But Kevin didn't care about them at that moment, making his way to the open side of the mahogany box like the damned approaching the gallows.

He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to say goodbye. He didn’t want this to be true.

It is not a gentle thing, staying when another leaves.

It is monstrous.

_“Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright_

_Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”_

Kevin did not cry. He did not speak. He simply inhaled a breath as strong people must do when they wish to be anything but so, and found some deep nestled courage he didn’t know existed until that moment to raise his eyes to the face of a dead friend. To someone he had lost, but maybe never really had.

Who truly has another, but those bound together in grief? Kevin’s hand reached for the man behind him at the same time he clasped Seth’s cold, folded palm in his other. It wasn’t until Kevin had done the undoable deed that he remembered Andrew was not here. It was a family affair, small and private, and even Kevin was barely allowed in the door. Andrew was still on the West lawns somewhere, or perhaps waiting near Windmere for the service to end and for Kevin to return in as close to as many pieces that he had initially left with.

So there Kevin stood, left holding the hand of a dead man with only the memories to console him.

But, then again.

Memoria letale quam momentum est.

_“Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,_

_And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,_

_Do not go gentle into that good night.”_

How many things Kevin took for granted, what they all took for granted. Crisp air in their lungs, laughing with chests raised proud to the sky. Dried leaves under their shoes, crunching from the weight of their scavenger soles. Small whispers in the dawn, beckoning when the world slept on but the restless ones did not.

Seth had been restless. Fidgety in the day, frigid at night. Fragile, so fragile, and so in denial. Antinous did not drown without a fight. Hippolyta did not succumb without a struggle. Seth did not fall without a shout.

Icarus, Icarus, the sun watched you soar. Icarus, Icarus—Apollo, don’t you mourn?

Kevin squeezed his hand around Seth’s still one, and wished, so painfully it made his jaw sore, that Seth would wake up if only to punch him in the ribs or the lungs one last time. To feel anything, Kevin thought, anything other than this, would be worth it. Physical torture has nothing on the heart.

_“Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight_

_Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”_

Whoever fixed up Seth before the viewing did their job well. That’s to say, Seth looked like a stranger. He almost seemed at peace, with the light film of makeup covering any skin slip from the past few days’ decay, concealer covering the dark eye circles Seth had worn like a medal. The one blessing was that Seth did not possess any strange, faux smile where a director may have called for a tug of the corpse’s lips. Instead he was blank faced, and Kevin couldn’t help but think that in some way, Seth earned himself one last victory even in death. Seth would have made a point to haunt anyone who tried to paste a smile on his face, as if the dead could be more happy, smug even, of their fatal situation.

Suicide, so many claimed.

Murdered, the whispers would say.

Kevin didn’t know at the time. He wish he did, he wish he could say he knew Seth well enough, that Seth wouldn’t have broke his back and split his skull on purpose. Maybe metaphorically, but not literally. Not like this.

Because what _this_ is, is everything except what makes sense. A broken body, a peaceful sight. White and orange lilies to comfort the very person who would never appreciate them. Why flowers for the dead? Isn’t it the survivors, the strugglers in the aftermath, who need them the most?

And why, Kevin wanted to scream most of all. Why must we die before our memory is worth remembering? Seth, head now stuffed with straw and stillborn cells had no care, no awareness for petals, for pollen stagnant in his throat. A hollow man to blossom the grave. A memorial would not bring a man back.

_“And you, my friend, there on the sad height,_

_Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._

_Do not go gentle into that good night—_

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

The speaker’s voice boomed like an antiphon across the crowd. The mourners sat in metal chairs moved from Court Square to litter the private lawns where the funeral was held, most of whom listened attentively to the words of a dead poet to honor the dead man. Matthew Boyd, standing tall and brave before the humble podium, cleared his throat before continuing. He did not stop to gaze at the sight of his deceased friend as the crowd had been doing the entire time. He did not dwell on what the present meant, what the future held without his dearly departed disaster. He did nothing but speak as true as he could, one last gift to send Seth Gordon on his way.

“The poem you just heard was one of Seth’s favorites,” Matt said into the microphone. The device was unnecessary. His voice carried like gospel either way. “But he would never tell you that. He was not someone who spoke a lot about himself, unless he planned to hide more than he shared. I could speak for days about my friend and never scrape the tip of the iceberg that composed him. Truth be told, he was a mystery to even those who knew him best, or at least, those who thought they knew him.

“And I won’t lie. I won’t pretend to think I knew him better than himself, or anyone else for that matter. But what I do know is simple: that I would have gladly spent the rest of my days clawing at the ice and frost that sculpted Bryan—Seth. And even if I never made progress, I would have been happy with what I had. Because that’s what you need to know about Seth. He was more than enough. Some would say he was too much. So filled with passion, with ambition. Seth was more human in a day than most people are in a lifetime.

“And, yeah.” Matt laughed, and it was a desperately sad sound, wet and saturated with emotion. “I’m not here to say everyone loved Seth. It’s hard to love the sun, when it burns and ravages all in its path. But, you know. Everyone has to look the sun in the eyes at some point and realize that even wild, calamitous things are beautiful. In their own insurmountable way.”

Matt shuffled the cue cards in his hands, but he hadn’t paused to glance at them since he started. “Like I said. I could spend days here and tell you who Seth was to me. To his friends, to his—“ Matt briefly skimmed over the face of Seth’s father in the crowd and swallowed. “To his family. But I don’t have days. I have roughly two more minutes, so here is what I will leave you with:

“If there is one word I had to pick to describe Seth, it’d be rage. Now, you might be thinking, ‘What the hell, Boyd? That’s not a very nice thing to say about the dead.’ But trust, I don’t say this with malice. Or with shame.” Matt blinked fresh tears and looked away from the harsh ray of light blinding his vision. “Seth was a fucking hurricane, and he knew it. Was proud of it.

“Because I don’t mean rage as in the emotion. I mean rage as in the noun. Seth is-was, and always has been since the day we met all those years ago, a rager. If you punched him to the ground, he’d pick himself up and tell you to try again, and next time? Hit like you mean it. If you threw him in the deep end, he’d rally the sharks as if he was one of their own. If you tied him down to train tracks, he’d break his teeth on the metal and smile his bloody lips at you before you ran him over.

“That’s what Seth was,” Matt murmured, audio carrying through the mic. “A rager. He didn’t go down without a fight, without a rhyme or reason, without the last laugh. And I know that in the End, Bryan Seth Gordon did not go gentle into that good night.”

Blinking be damned, a stray tear fell onto the wood of the podium. Matt watched its descent travel from the top of the surface to the edge of the wood, before dropping away for good. He didn’t watch the crowd watch him. He clenched his hands around the corners of the stand and looked back into the glow of the afternoon sun.

“So Seth…I know hell’s probably throwing you a welcome home party right now, so sorry if this message is lost in transit, but—” Matt allowed the deprecating chuckles of the people before him to drown out the pain in his chest, filleting him open and stringing him apart vessel by blood vessel. “If you’re hearing this…if you’re hearing this, rage for me, G. Rage for you and for all the bastards under your lead. Rage like the fucking hurricane I knew you to be.

“Rage against that dying light. And—“ Matt raked a hand across his face, laughter and hot tears wiped away—“save us a seat next to the red guy, won’t you? I know you’re not patient, but just this once. Try. We can’t join you yet, but we will.” Another laugh, another ache. “Cross my heart and hope to die, and all that.”

The joke may have fallen flat on any other crowd, but these mourners were not like most others. They were the damned and the depraved. A handful of students, relatives, and other disgraced consorts at the top of the metaphorical food chain. Seth’s mother could not make her son’s funeral; she was on holiday in Cannes with a paramour and did not care for any distractions while off the clock. But no worries, she’d visit her children’s grave at some point, as she claimed. It wasn’t like Aspen or Seth were in a hurry, right?

Seth’s father sat alone then, though a careful flank of his bodyguards patrolled the lawn’s perimeters. To lose not only a child, but two, no less, in such a short period of time (Aspen’s death, after all, was still fresh in the crowd’s mind)…

—Well, who is anyone to judge Gordon Senior for scrolling through his email while Matt spoke? A man must have his methods of coping, whatever that may be.

Right?

Damn them all. And Matt would be a hypocrite to think he didn’t deserve the same cast away treatment. Relationships are fickle, in that respect. How much you can loathe a person one second, how strongly you would die for them in the next. Not sure whether the hand you raise is to strike or to hold, to hurt or to heal. How badly you wish it could be both.

Because the truth is, Seth never forgave Matt before the end. And in some way, Matt never forgave Seth. And the hurt had dragged on for so long neither of them knew who, what they were actually angry with.

Fickle.

It wasn’t even the least Matt could do for Seth, standing before the podium and wishing a final farewell. He could’ve done so much more. He could’ve dragged Gordon Senior into the trees and strung that bastard up for the world to see, to say _look at this man, look at a guy who cares more about his bank roll than his dead children._ He could have pulled Allison into his arms, to tell her _I’m sorry, I’m sorry he hurt you, I’m sorry you hurt him_. He could have pulled out his phone and called his boss and pleaded for death, for the end, for all the quiet and emptiness to devour him like the grave devoured Seth.

But Matt didn’t. When he finished his speech, he simply stepped off of the podium and took his seat between Kevin and one of Seth’s cousins. Kevin threw his arm around Matt’s shoulders and pulled them together, whispering in Matt’s ear a good job.

“You think he would have liked it?” Matt asked, dropping his voice to not disturb the words of the woman who’d taken Matt’s place at the podium. Seth’s aunt, maybe. Matt wasn’t sure.

Kevin shook his head. “He would’ve kicked you in the balls if he heard it.”

Matt considered that for a moment, before he and Kevin had to bite their tongues to hide the wet laughter bubbling up. “Then I did my job,” Matt nodded, and Kevin laughed again through his tears.

The service went off without a hitch after that. The priest or reverend or whatever-it-is that says the prayers spoke a short sermon on the afterlife and the hope in the resurrection. Kevin and Matt kept tallies of how many teeth the man would have lost if Seth had been alive. Seth would’ve found some morbid satisfaction in sharing just what it was he thought about Jesus’s saving grace while making the man wish some messiah would return to save _him_.

“G would have slit his own throat by now, anyway,” Matt muttered at one point when someone laid a rosary on top of Seth’s folded hands.

Kevin huffed. “He did always say, it wasn’t a real funeral if a stripper didn’t pop out of the casket at least once.”

That sent them both off again, and the confused stares from some in the crowd was the only thing that could sober them. That, and the fact they were getting ready to close the casket for good before it would be transported to Alabama, where Seth would be buried with his sister.

The last round of goodbyes was somehow easier than the first. Matt and Kevin approached the casket together, and Matt leaned down to kiss Seth’s cheek while Kevin fixed an invisible flaw on Seth’s navy jacket.

“I meant what I said,” Matt murmured into Seth’s ear. Kevin could just barely make out the words. “Save us a seat, you fucking bastard.”

His affectionate tone softened the harshness of his words and Kevin’s lips tugged up wryly. “What makes you think he’ll listen to you?” he asked Matt before mirroring Matt’s earlier gesture and kissing Seth’s cheek.

“We’re family,” Matt shrugged. Kevin paused at that, before nodding his head in understanding and patting Seth’s arm one last time. Their turn was over and they stepped back for someone else to pay their respects.

It didn’t feel over, but maybe death never does.

“What now?” Kevin wondered.

“Food?” Matt offered.

The other man hummed in agreement. “Nothing like a funeral to give a man an appetite.”

Matt snorted derisively but couldn’t disagree.

Ten minutes later they found themselves walking away from the crowd, plates of finger food in hand. Neither men dared to talk to Seth’s stoic father, who’d been busy thinking of a solid enough excuse to leave early without his apathy being obvious.

“ _So_ obvious,” Matt tutted. He’d meant it to come out as a snarl, but he was just too tired.

Kevin nodded, tongue running over his upper teeth as he slid to the ground in front of a non-assuming elm. They were a considerable distance away from the crowd at this point, and couldn’t even hear the lingering chatter from the group. Matt joined Kevin and pulled out a small bronze flask from the inside of his coat pocket when he’d settled.

“Man’s a bastard. No wonder he used Daddy’s picture as target practice.”

By ‘he’, Kevin meant Seth. And by ‘target practice’, Kevin meant the board of pictures Seth had stuck of his dad on Seth’s dorm wall, the one that Seth had spent a considerable time throwing darts at. His aim had been lethal.

Matt opened the flask and took a swig while Kevin shoved another sandwich in his mouth. “I would’ve too,” Matt hummed. “Feel bad for Alli, mostly. I think she’s the only person he ever really gave a shit for.”

Kevin paused mid-chew. “He gave a shit about us, Mattie.”

Matt bobbed his head, but he seemed to be more focused on the sliver of light glinting off the bottle than Kevin’s words. “I know. Hurts less to pretend he didn’t, though.”

Kevin swallowed and let the food land like stone in the pit of his stomach. Matt was right. It hurt a lot less to think Seth hated them. In some ways, in many ways, he did. In even more ways, Seth had cared. You’d never know that by his words. Time together proved otherwise.

“Remember when he thought Alli was pregnant?” Matt mentioned suddenly. His eyes lit up briefly, and Kevin almost choked on a grape.

“Oh my god. I’ll never forget it.” Kevin chuckled and refused the Balvenie Matt offered. He didn’t drink anymore, which was more of an accomplishment than a yet legal man should have on his resume. But, still. Proof of how far he’d come, no less. “He was ready to buy the whole goddamn toy industry. Probably would’ve bought the kid an island too.”

Seth had been an absolute train wreck before they discovered it was a false alarm. One minute he was preaching his own damnation, the next he was researching cribs with state of the art defense mechanisms. When Matt mentioned he didn’t think installing guns, no matter the sort, on a crib’s exterior was a good idea, Matt had to nurse a bruised jaw for weeks.

Matt snickered and stole one of Kevin’s sandwiches. “It’s gonna be so quiet without him.”

“They figure out the roommate situation yet?” Kevin asked him. He slapped Matt’s hand when the other man went for Kevin’s grape vine. “Dude, you have your own.”

“Mine are bitter. And no, apparently there was some talk of a new kid moving in with me, but looks like he’ll be off campus.”

Kevin raised a brow. “Lucky fuck. Who’s dick he suck to be allowed?”

“Why?” Matt popped another grape into his mouth before Kevin could stop him.”Considering it?”

“Blowing an admin? No.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “No, not that. You already have Andrew.” Kevin coughed. “Do you want to move off campus?”

“Not really. S’just weird how some people get around campus housing. Like Alli.”

Matt stared at him. “You sweet summer child.” Kevin blinked and Matt elaborated. “It’s called _bri-ber-y_.” He drew the word out like he was explaining to a five year old. Kevin slapped his shoulder this time.

“No shit, Boyd.”

Matt laughed and they finished their food. They didn’t have class that day, but Kevin wasn’t in the mood to get up just yet. He and Matt passed more stories back and forth from the past year and a half, and Matt shared memories of he and Seth from before Kevin arrived at Foxborough.

Matt got through almost all his drink by the time sunset arrived, long after the ceremony must have ended, but it was Kevin who felt more off kilter. At first, he had thought the memories would help, would bring some sort of closure. But the more they talked, the more Kevin remembered the bad times. The times Seth was impossible to handle. When Kevin wondered how it could be possible to hate someone so much and still go back to them. How Seth lit up any stage he graced, and how it reminded Kevin they were, at the end of the day, merely actors playing one long role written against their will.

“Is it possible to miss the pain?” Kevin wondered at one point. He’d taken his coat jacket off and had his shirt sleeves rolled up, welcoming the early evening chill. “I feel like I’m supposed to be missing the good stuff. But all I can think about is that concussion he gave me at practice, and how I wish he could do it again. Cause at least then it’d mean he’s alive to do it.”

Matt had sprawled out with his head on Kevin’s lap, loosely thumbing grass between his fingers. Kevin played with the fabric of Matt’s jacket before meeting his friend’s eyes. “Or am I crazy?”

Matt smiled sadly. “All the best people are, babe.”

Kevin closed his eyes and rested his head against the tree’s trunk. Matt and he had always been tactile, communicating more through touch than words. It had drove Seth crazy, and something about Matt’s fingers platonically tracing the ridges of Kevin’s hand without Seth’s crude remarks felt off. It should’ve been a comfortable silence. Who would miss something like Seth’s attitude?

Matt pressed his thumb into Kevin’s first knuckle and Kevin understood. It didn’t matter if it was unconventional how they viewed Seth’s absence. It didn’t matter if the whole world would call them insane for missing the man, the toxic parts as much as the base. Not to them, at least. Even Andrew didn’t understand how Kevin could mourn Seth’s death. Though maybe that wasn’t as much of a reach as Kevin thought; Andrew didn’t mourn much.

Besides. It wasn’t like Kevin and Matt were saints. They were certified assholes.

“Do you…” Kevin trailed off before opening his eyes. Matt watched him patiently. “Do you believe he’s still out there?”

Matt scrunched his nose. “Like an afterlife?”

“Yeah.”

He mused over his response for awhile to the point Kevin thought Matt wouldn’t answer. But finally he did, and it wasn’t what Kevin was expecting. “I think we’re here as long as our memory survives. That’s why they erased named from history. Because some people shouldn’t live that long, even in death.”

Kevin wondered how drunk Matt was, and Matt pinched Kevin lightly as if he knew that’s what Kevin was thinking.

“So if everyone forgets him, he’s gone?” Kevin said.

“Yeah.” Matt shrugged, the movement of his shoulder brushing Kevin’s knees. “That’s just how I think of it. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“I hope it’s not,” Kevin sighed honestly. “I know it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want to be forgotten.”

Matt raised his hand upward as if reaching for a leaf or the sky. The sun was almost fully set and fireflies were starting to appear in the periphery. It was one of those simply beautiful sights, nothing outrageous or artificial. Kevin thought of an indeterminable night so long ago when he’d been a child, his mother catching a firefly for Kevin. How she’d cupped the small creature in her palms while he watched with wide eyes as its end lit up. How amazed he’d been, that something so small could make such an incredible sight. Kevin hoped that wherever they were, his mother was out catching fireflies for Seth and showing his friend that things mustn’t be loud and large to be utterly loved.

“I think,” Matt said so quietly it was almost a whisper, “the world will know your name, Kevin Day. And I think it would take something like Doomsday to wipe it away.”

There it was, another glow of light in the distance. Kevin wondered if he could catch one.

Matt let his hand fall and sat up. He patted Kevin’s cheek tenderly before Kevin stopped him moving away. Kevin clasped his hand around Matt’s and said, “I don’t need the world, Matt. Just promise me…promise me we’ll be okay. No matter what happens.”

Matt frowned. “What do you mean?”

Kevin struggled to put his sudden revelation into words. “People grow up. Grow apart from each other. This place—“ Kevin shivered—“is off. I don’t know. Fox is fucked up in more ways than one. I’m either scared of half the students or deeply concerned for the others. But us, we don’t have to be Fox’s legacy. We can still do Seth right. Just promise me that this, this world won’t fuck us up like the rest. We can prove it wrong. We can be okay.”

Matt licked his lips, running Kevin’s words over in his mind. He was more sober than he thought, and the reminder of all the secrets that still hung between them turned his stomach. One day he would come clean and tell Kevin everything. One day he would tell Kevin that they were family without The Family watching in the background. One day he wouldn’t feel guilt running through his veins like the most torturous heroine rush every time he had to look Kevin in the eyes.

And one day, if he’s lucky, Matt will be able to shut away the corpse of his present king who let Seth perish for nothing, and he’ll kneel before the rightful heir. Not Riko. Not Kengo.

But Kevin.

That day wasn’t this one, so Matt did the only thing he could that felt right. He drew a diagonal line over his chest with his finger before repeating the gesture in the opposite direction. An invisible _X_ that marked every memory of truth and tragedy. “Cross my heart and hope to die, Kev.”

Kevin’s lips tugged up but his expression couldn’t have been more pained. “Don’t hope too hard.”

Matt’s response was cut off by a soft buzzing in Kevin’s pocket. He pulled out the phone and looked at the caller ID. It was Andrew, and Kevin cursed. He’d meant to text Andrew almost two hours ago that he’d find the man later that night.

Matt smirked teasingly. “Better answer. Don’t want to worry the hubby.”

“Fuck off,” Kevin muttered. “You know it’s not like that.”

“I _know_ you’re both wrong,” Matt said easily. “You’re wrapped around each other’s fingers. Doesn’t need to be screamed for the world to hear for it to be real.”

Kevin glanced between his friend and his ringing phone. Matt had a point. Maybe Kevin was more traditional in wanting to have a concrete definition of what he and Andrew were to each other. But did he _need_ that? No.

Kevin watched another firefly twinkle in and out of sight a few yards away. He imagined Seth’s voice telling him to be an obedient puppy and answer the damn phone. It almost made Kevin laugh, and Matt quirked a curious brow at Kevin’s expression. He didn’t explain himself though, in favor of pressing the ‘answer’ button the moment before the phone would’ve gone to voicemail.

“Hey,” Kevin greeted, and for the first time that day, the tightness in his chest felt almost bearable. He mirrored Matt’s gesture from earlier, and reached his hand toward the sky when Andrew answered.

For a breathless, infinite moment, a firefly glowed at the tip of his finger.

II.

“Day.”

Kevin lowers his hand and looks at the newcomer. Sunrise is only an hour away, and he can just make out the shadows around the other man’s face where he stands a few meters off.

“Hi.”

Neil shifts from one foot to the other. Kevin hadn’t heard him approach and he wonders how long Neil has been standing there. “What are you doing?”

Kevin doesn’t know if Neil means to ask what Kevin was doing with his hand, or what Kevin is doing out at four in the morning in general. Kevin shrugs and goes with his gut answer. “Too quiet in the dorm.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate further. Neil immediately knows what Kevin means. Nicky’s still in the hospital and probably won’t be released for another few days. Kevin can only wake up so many nights alone and be reminded why Nicky’s gone without starting to lose his mind.

It’s Friday morning, three days since they’ve been back on campus, four days since one of the worst experiences Kevin’s ever been through. Arguably, it was _the_ worst, but Kevin’s alternating through too many cycles of shock and terror every other hour to reach an unbiased conclusion.

He would’ve spent the nights with Andrew in his room, or at Neil’s place like the man had offered. But Andrew’s been practically camping next to Nicky’s hospital bed ever since they got back and won’t leave Aaron’s side. Andrew tried to convince Kevin and Neil to go with him in Andrew’s stoic, roundabout way, but Kevin could only handle so much time in a hospital without wanting to pull the plug on himself, so to speak. Neil’s either still feeling guilty about the whole affair and trying not to show it, or he really has been in constant communication with The Family, because he’s near shut himself away in his apartment for “business”. No doubt both.

Men: Avoiding the inevitable since, well. Ever.

To be honest, Kevin kind of thinks the temporary separation is doing them all a favor. It can’t be healthy to latch onto other people so strongly in the way he has in the past weeks. He stands by his point that life is too short not to need other people, but if Kevin can’t find the strength to breathe on his own, he’ll suffocate sooner than later.

And, now that the initial shock is wearing off only to be replaced with recycled emotion, Kevin can admit he’s more angry than he thought he was. For all the secrets, all the lies. Even if they were justified, even if it was for all their safety, Kevin is angry how out-of-the-know he’d been. Not just angry at Neil and Andrew, but at The Family, at himself for being so naive. He truly had thought he could escape the Moriyamas. As if that was ever a choice.

“You were right,” Kevin had spit at Matt the day after he’d been rescued from the manor. “Guess we really are Family.”

Matt hadn’t had a chance to sputter a response where he stood in his dorm room’s doorway, lethargic from a nap Kevin had woken him from, before Kevin had stalked away, grumbling profanities under his breath.

It only took another day for Kevin to get his answer. He assumed right, more disappointed than surprised when he was proven correct.

Seth had been Family too.

And fuck him all to hell, Kevin wished the man was still alive if only to disown the bastard.

Killed by the Malcolms, turns out, those blood-born bastards. Killed and buried and shoved away from all humanity and the worst part?

Even if the Malcolms never came to Fox, even if they never _existed_ , Seth would still be six feet under. Kevin had learned that lovely piece of information from Neil on the car ride back to campus. That Seth’s performance had been “sub-par” and The Family had sent Neil, to some extent, to be Seth’s replacement. Except Seth had been taken out before Ichirou called the shots, prompting Neil’s arrival at Fox to be pushed forward by nearly a month. Originally, Neil was supposed to arrive for the new term, not at the end of the fall’s.

Fickle, fickle, _fickle_.

“What about you?” Kevin asks Neil in the present. He raises a brow at the running shorts Neil wears, almost annoyed at himself for noticing how well they fit around Neil’s waist. For being so short, Neil isn’t anywhere close to stick and bone. He has considerable muscle, though not as burly as Andrew, and Kevin’s surprised by his own sudden urge to feel that muscle pulling like bowstrings under his fingers. To know Neil is really there, and not some phantom come to haunt Kevin’s pre-dawn revelries.

“It’s quiet,” Neil says in answer, his tone reflecting more appreciation for the fact than Kevin had. “Clears my head when I run. Exercise-wise,” he’s quick to add with grim humor.

Kevin nods. “Aren’t you cold?” He asks, hoping that Neil won’t leave just yet.

“I will be soon.” But despite his words, Neil wipes his sweat-damp forehead with the back of his hand and walks over to the spot next to Kevin. He gestures and Kevin inclines his head, wordlessly permitting Neil to take a seat against the tree. His shoulder brushes Kevin’s when he crosses his legs under the opposite thighs. “Are you?”

“No.” Kevin leans back. “I happen to be wearing clothes.”

Neil makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “Touché.” Unlike Neil, Kevin’s actually dressed for the chill in a hoodie and sweats he didn’t bother changing out of when he left his dorm room.

They sit like that for some time, not speaking in favor of sharing the silence. It’s more comforting than the quiet used to be for Kevin, and he almost thinks he could finally fall asleep, back to an unmarked oak (both men refuse to even pass in front of Noose) and chest raised toward the leaves.

It’s not until a faint glow appears directly ahead, the first traces of an orange and white sunrise breaking across the sky like a crack tearing apart the horizon, that Kevin speaks. His voice is barely louder than a whisper, but Neil hears the tell-tale rumble of an earthquake in Kevin’s words.

“Do you ever pray, Neil? Like for the people you’ve killed?”

Kevin heard, in appropriately vivid detail from Renee, of what exactly happened to the Malcolms. Neil, upon seeing a very angry and very injured Lola escape down a back staircase before Ichirou summoned the group, drew his khukuri and speared the woman straight in the cheek and right through her skull. She had no time to defend herself, and was already curled over from a gut shot even before Neil remodeled her face. The flaying was quick and unnecessary and completely unstoppable once Neil got going.

Renee claimed it was more hacking with a severely flexible blade than straight up skinning, but the point was the same. Andrew had already taken care of Romero by the time Neil finished with Lola. Three clean shots to the head and he fell, Andrew as lethal if not as messy as his counterpart. The simple sight hadn’t been enough for Neil and so Neil turned his blade on the retired gardener. A few minutes and hacks later, Romero’s tongue was removed and shoved somewhere tongues should not be shoved, and his jaw made null of.

All in all, Ichirou and his men had not been impressed. They’d wanted a statement, answers, the usual information out of the siblings. What they got instead was two faceless corpses and a desperate need for bleach.

The rest of Foxborough, however, learned a different tale. Due to an unfortunate engine malfunction, in the early dawn of Monday morning, the Malcolms’ car hydroplaned off a particularly slippery piece of road. Before crashing into an unspecified object that coincidentally no one witnessed, the car had almost hit Kevin, who’d been walking across the street to the dorms and jumped out of the way just in the nick of time. Andrew and Neil found Kevin’s injured, unconscious body, and brought him to the hospital. Katelyn had already been at the hospital that morning as they “interned” there (or so Aaron was led to believe).

It was a convenient story. Entirely unbelievable, of course. But no one at Foxborough is stupid enough to press for the truth. They didn’t survive this long amongst the families and acquaintances they surrounded themselves with for nothing.

Upon further investigation, a quick and thorough study into the Malcolm’s residence just off campus proved more disturbing details. Cases upon cases of cracker dust, along with a considerable amount of belongings reported as missing by students over the past year, were discovered among the mess of an armory the Malcolms owned. Rifles and Glocks were just as frequent findings as speys and wharncliffes.

Andrew took one look at the photo evidence Katelyn got ahold of, with a particular interest in the cases of dust unearthed. He put two and two together faster than Neil even realized there were dots to connect. Thirty minutes and a trip to Dobson’s office later, Andrew got his confirmation. Lola had been the one to drug him, after all. Twice, in fact. It was the only conclusion that made sense. Andrew told Dobson about the last stint when he could have swore on his brother’s life that he measured the dose correctly; and even then, his reaction to the correct dosage was as if he’d added a near lethal amount.

Dobson didn’t waste time admonishing Andrew for not telling her sooner. Instead, she called up the 'private investigators’ (OCRA hired of course, Andrew didn’t even blink) and sent for details. The results were clear: the cracker dust in the Malcolm’s residence contained a higher concentration of poison. Rather than the more diluted grams OCRA allowed Andrew to use for immunity, the Malcolm’s had a ridiculously strong strain.

Andrew hadn’t made any mistakes. He measured two grams. But if the obvious assumption is true, Lola or her brother must have switched out the dosages. Two grams of their concentration was the equivalent of near two and half of Andrew’s—not lethal, but enough to mess with his head, point in case.

Neil doesn’t answer now, confused more than startled by the words, and Kevin continues in that same low timbre, “Cause I pray for myself. Every day.”

“I didn’t know you believed in God.”

“I don’t.” Kevin folds his hands across his lap and shrugs. “I believe in myself.

“My point is,” he says with more strain, “is that I’m not used to putting my faith in others. Not in a god, and certainly not in other people. Why pray for someone’s soul if you’ve barely got your own? My whole life, it’s always been the outside world that hurt me.” A tired sigh. “And then Andrew and you came along.”

Neil knits his brows and looks at Kevin. “I still don’t understand.”

Kevin turns his head and watches a spot just above Neil’s eyes. “My mother used to say that forgiveness isn’t about the other person. It’s about yourself. That if you hold on to all the hurt and anger, that’s what you’ll become. Hurt and anger personified, this endless cycle. Until you reach the point where you’re hurting long after the other person has moved on. So in a way, if you never forgive and you just hold on to the pain, the people who’ve hurt you win forever. Because you never let go. You never heal.”

“Did you agree with her?” Neil asks, voice pitched equally low. Somber.

Kevin’s face is just as serious. “The first time I ever said ‘bullshit’, it was to her, because of that. Because she told me I needed the peace that comes with forgiveness more than the kid who hit me at school did. I thought she was insane.”

“A kid hit you?” Neil repeats. He sounds as amused as he looks sad.

“But she was my mom,” Kevin continues as if Neil never spoke. “It’s genetics, you know? She probably was crazy, so I must be too.”

Kevin’s gaze drops and he finally meets Neil’s eyes. “I forgive you, Neil. And when I see Andrew, I’ll tell him the same thing. And most of all—“ Kevin thumbs his chest where one of his sutures still lay—“I forgive myself.”

“For what?” Neil scoffs. He doesn’t comment on Kevin’s first words. Even if he, deep down, knows he needs Kevin’s forgiveness like Judas before the tree.

“When I was taken…” Kevin shudders in a breath. “When I was taken, all I could think was how badly I hoped you and Andrew wouldn’t come. That I knew you would anyway, and in a way, I hated you for it. I hated that you cared so much. Because if there was any possibility of you getting killed for me, I’d never be able to forgive myself. But I do. I do forgive myself, for being selfish enough to be thankful when you did come.”

Neil goes quiet again, and Kevin can almost hear the mental gears churning. When Neil does speak, it makes Kevin laugh. “Point. I hate people with moral compasses.”

“You think I have a moral compass?” Kevin guffaws.

“It needs serious reconfiguring, but yeah. Yeah I do.” Neil lets out a long suffered sigh and smirks. “Nicky was right about you.”

Kevin’s chest twinges at the mention of Nicky’s name. “How?”

“Le sens du drame,” Neil says with a mocking flourish of his hand. Kevin gives him a pointed look.

“I take back what I said,” Kevin decides. “I’m still not over you acting like a dumbass.”

“Acting?” Neil deadpans.

“I—“ Kevin shakes his head.

Neil starts laughing. “You’re just too easy.”

“Am I?”

Neil sobers and places his hand close to where Kevin’s thigh brushes the grass. There’s goosebumps up and down Neil’s skin where the chill has inevitably seeped in, but he gives no indication he feels it. “Sometimes,” he amends.

Kevin inhales shakily. “Come here.”

Neil hesitates as if weighing Kevin’s earnest before scooting closer. No longer brushing, their presence envelops the other. Kevin lifts his arm and Neil accepts the offer, resting his head on Kevin’s shoulder, Kevin’s cheek against Neil’s hair. It’s like an exhale of breath, like wading into the refreshing chill of an ocean after burning so long. Nothing’s been easy, especially not them, and the thought that either of them could be is laughable. Getting _here_ , to this point, to the dawn after the doom days that tried to destroy them, was not easy. But breathing is a start, and they have to somewhere. Every day, every moment, little starts to keep them going. To keep them fighting.

“Andrew’s coming tonight,” Neil says once the sun has broken the hills and orange shadow has bled the entire sky aflame.

Kevin turns his cheek and ghosts a kiss against Neil’s temple. “I know. Do you have work?”

Neil pinches the fabric of Kevin’s sweats. His hand is healing well after shattering against glass. “You know I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Damn right,” Kevin can’t help but smirk. Even if it’s bravado. Neil pinches him harder.

“Only you would stay loyal to that damn play after everything.” Neil’s tone is light, but if it’s underscored with quiet admiration, that’s only for him to know.

“I already knew the lines,” Kevin defends.

“You don’t like the understudy, do you?” Neil guesses.

“No, I’m—“ Kevin sighs. “Jack’s an asshole, okay? And he’s a freshman. He doesn’t get to play Haemon just because I had a rough week.”

Neil blinks before laughing. “A _rough_ week. Wow, okay. And you say I need better choice words.”

Kevin tugs Neil’s ear in answer and bites back a self-conscious laugh. Lord, they really are insane.

They’re in no rush to leave yet. Neil has a class that afternoon, and Ichirou didn’t feel it necessary to write an excuse form despite the ‘rough week’ they’ve had. But for now, they more melt than fall back into a comfortable silence. Kevin pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the sky, the rising sun now fully coating blue morning rays with orange crimson rivers. Obnoxious colors we can’t help falling for.

Kevin turns the phone camera inward and snaps another picture of him and Neil. Neil notices what Kevin’s doing just as Kevin’s finger hits the shutter button, and he makes a face at Kevin that couldn’t be more unimpressed if he tried. Kevin rolls his eyes but the smile breaks through. He doesn’t think twice before sending the picture to Andrew, along with the one of the sky. Andrew will probably click the dislike feature, if he acknowledges them at all, but Kevin doesn’t care.

Because they’re still alive. Nicky’s going to be okay, he has to. Kevin has one last performance, one more act, and then he can finally focus on what comes After.

Because if he can’t escape The Family…

Ichirou will regret ever saving Kevin in the first place. Kevin will make sure of it.

First, though, he has to survive the year.

Kevin pulls Neil closer to his chest, almost unconsciously. Students are starting to mill around outside, walking down paths in pairs or toward the dining halls alone. The roots they are all entangled within are monstrous, and it’s almost comedic how mundane they must seem to the untrained eye. But some roots are severed at the base and it shows. Kevin doesn’t have to look around to notice the obvious signs. Because after everything, after the storm, there is something foreign that nestles under every branch and leaf and tangled tree that calls itself peace.

For now, there are no gardeners. There is no singing. There is no clamor.

So quiet.

III.

The steady beep of the monitor is Andrew’s only companion.

That is, until Aaron returns with his and Andrew’s cups of coffee. It’s Andrew’s third one of the day, and even he can admit that’s a bit much before eight a.m. Kick one habit, fall into another. Andrew’s had worse, namely the dust he’s written off. Too much caffeine is innocent compared.

He accepts the cup wordlessly from his brother. They’ve barely spoken to each other in the past few days. It doesn’t help they’re both strung thin, pretending to be in one piece while they search for shards when the other turns away. 

“Kate’s coming by in an hour.” Aaron offers up the information unprompted. He sips from his coffee with one hand while the other taps restlessly on his knee where he sits in the plastic chair next to Andrew. “You can head back, take a shower or something.”

Andrew doesn’t proffer a response. Katelyn, true to their word, did retire from their position as Andrew and Renee’s handler. Though, _resign_ may be the more accurate term. They only changed hands and now work as some assets manager for OCRA’s operations against the rising faction in Kazan. Katelyn will still work from South Carolina, handling miscellaneous business for OCRA (really, The Family) and delivering whatever coded messages the wind blows in.

Speaking of messages. Dobson delivered one to Andrew when he went to confirm his assumptions about the overdoses. He and Renee have already been assigned their new handler, someone by the name of Robin.

Fucking nicknames.

Aaron’s unperturbed by Andrew’s silence. He checks his phone and adds, “Erik’s checking by too, again.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Andrew mutters. It’s totally unfair to Erik: he stops by every day, stays most of the day, and only leaves when the hospital staff have to drag him out since overnight stays are for direct family only.

Besides, it’s for the best. Nicky’s doing as well as can be expected, but he only tends to wake up in the early hours of the morning or late at night, lethargic and drugged out of his mind from the morphine. It’s a pitiful sight. Except for that one time on Wednesday morning—that had almost been funny. It was around three am, pitch black outside with only the haunting clicks of the heart monitor to listen to, when Nicky had blinked awake, took one look at his wrists wrapped heavily in casts, and choked out a garbled, “Thank God I can deep-throat,” before passing out once more in his hospital bed like he’d never woken at all.

Aaron, who’d been awake just like Andrew, had never managed to look so _offended_ at what he witnessed, and yet just as much relieved as he had in that moment.

“The play’s tonight,” Aaron reminds as if Andrew could forget. “Heard Day’s still going through with it, even after the accident.”

Andrew doesn’t respond to this either. Aaron glances at him before shrugging as if he could personally not care less.

“Nicky wanted to go,” Andrew finally tells his brother. Aaron’s face starts to crumple in at the words, but some force of will powers through and he smoothes his expression.

“Yeah, well,” Aaron huffs. “You’re going, I’m sure?”

A stiff tilt of the head.“Yes.”

Aaron nods, unsurprised. “I might as well go. Erik will be here, so Nicky won’t be alone.”

“He’s not alone. He’s got Bekah.” Andrew wrinkles his nose when he says it and Aaron snorts. Bekah is one of the nurses that constantly checks in on Nicky. She’s a sweetheart, very doting. Nicky would love her if he were ever sentient enough to notice. Naturally, the twins hate her.

Andrew thinks to himself that this is easily the most words they’ve exchanged in awhile. He wisely decides to grab more coffee the first chance he gets. Can’t risk socializing becoming his new habit now, can he?

But Aaron’s on a roll and Andrew doesn’t have the energy to stop him. “How is uh, how is Kevin doing, by the way?” He’s hesitant when he asks but Andrew fills his brother in with as little words and with as little truth about the “accident" as possible. Fucking non-disclosure. It’s like the three stooges: nicknames, non-disclosures, Nevix. Damn right they get their own category.

Then Aaron asks, “And the other one?”

Andrew only exhales a silent breath through his nose until Aaron rolls his eyes and corrects himself. “Neil. How is Neil doing?”

Humming noncommittally, Andrew glances at his parallel. They share the same sharp nose, same harsh set in the jaw when they’re ticked off or uncomfortable, same hard ridge of the brow when they’re thinking deeply of something. It doesn’t take much to see all those signs and more in Aaron now, tense posture proof of his permanent discomfort when it comes to Andrew’s partners. The latter’s reminded of the night after he’d returned from Neil’s apartment, when Aaron—who thought he knew his brother but could not have been more wrong—cast a snide remark about Andrew’s relationship with Kevin, that it must have been falling apart like goddamn Chernobyl for Andrew to so casually sneak out to see someone like Neil. As if Aaron knew, as if Aaron understood a single _thing_ about Andrew. About loyalty.

“One wasn’t enough for you?” Aaron had continued, disgust clear like a second skin.

And Andrew, in a rare show of rage he almost always had control over, saw through his brother’s question for what Aaron really meant, and shouted, “ _Abel did not satisfy Cain.”_

Aaron had dropped the notebook he’d been rifling through into his lap, gaze frozen on the fallen page and mouth parted in shock. Same DNA as Andrew. Same trauma. Like a road crossing the earth, but they had to come to a fork at some point. And there was only room for one on each path.

_One wasn’t enough?_ But what Aaron meant was much more simple than that, much more pained. _Your family, your own brothe_ r—me— _wasn’t enough?_ _You can divide yourself amongst them, between Kevin and Neil, the latter who may as well be a fucking_ stranger, _but you can’t treat me like an equal? Like your own flesh and blood? Like the same goddamn gravel we trip and fall and claw for purchase every day on?_

Aaron hadn’t needed to say any of those things. As it was, Andrew heard it all loud and clear within the one question. And Andrew, ever the disappointer, may as well have confirmed Aaron’s blood-deep insecurities with his own response.

Before Andrew could take his words back, an impossible feat both men knew would never occur until pigs flew, Aaron slammed his notebook shut and stood from his bed. “Good to know nothing’s changed then,” he muttered in the only way a person can when their throat clogs with unshed emotion and they are desperate to escape before the inevitable.

“I hope,” Aaron added before he stalked out of the dorm room, “they satisfy you. Because heaven have mercy on them if they don’t.”

With a clarity similar to the sudden, sharp sense of cherry juice turning one’s hand sticky in it’s wake, Andrew comes to the realization why he’s reminded of that night. Not because Aaron is still drudging up bygones, but because neither of them got closure. Andrew doesn’t regret what he said, but he never finished the rest of his statement, either. So instead of answering Aaron’s present question, Andrew answers what Aaron meant to ask. What Aaron has always wanted to know, to hear, to believe, since that night. Not, “How is Kevin or Neil doing?” but, “Do they still satisfy what I could not?”

The simple answer is that this is not a competition. But history has always been one long one. Adam against Eve, Eve against the Snake. Brother against brother. Blood against bone.

But why, Andrew has always wanted to know. Why should our history be like the rest?

“I am not your Cain,” Andrew tells the man beside him so quietly Aaron would’ve missed it if he’d been distracted. But Aaron doesn’t miss it. And he understands his brother and the secret language they share for what it is. Not simply, “I am not your Cain,” but—

I am not your enemy.

And you are not mine.

Bloodlines, after all, should not be battlefields.

Aaron shifts in his seat and studies the lid of his coffee cup. Andrew turns back to the scene in front of him, of the clock on the wall ticking away unretrievable seconds, minutes. Of their cousin damaged in a hospital bed, who’s been damaged for such a long time like everyone else but now has the record to prove it. Why must we prove pain to receive comfort? Is the truth itself really so stale?

Aaron never offers a response to those words. How can he? There’s nothing more to be said. They finish their coffee and allow the steady beat of the monitor to compose their fragile pieces. When Katelyn and Erik arrive sometime later, they still have not spoken, but there’s a wash of relief that’s settled over the air between the two brothers. Something like a truce.Something like a start.

IV.

Honey curls on cotton.

Hands like wine over skin.

Heavy breathing, hearts beating, sin has no place in this _reconnaissance_.

“Mon coeur,” Allison murmurs.

“My rose,” the swan sings back.

A whisper of love, a gentle confession. Bodies moving under bedsheets like a million before them. Trust was humanity’s first sin, but trust healed them again.

“Need you,” the first exhales.

“You have me,” the other revels.

Lips on lips, on throat, on bones that break—but _trust_ , but trust to heal again.

A scar on her hip. A bruise on her thigh. The swan worships both.

The penthouse suite is quiet at this time of night, of morning. Overlooking the river and just out of sight of the Academy’s sweeping gaze, the two lovers are safe of any prying eyes save for their own. Renee slides a finger into Allison at the same time she captures another kiss. Whether it’s two souls pulsing together or one soul finally reunited, it’s impossible to say. But nothing must be said when they’re so united, so whole, though they murmur sweet somethings and offer little praises every moment.

“Tell me what happened,” she had asked Renee when the latter arrived back from Columbia. Renee’s jaw was bruised from a stray fist, a few scrapes to the wrists and arms where a Russian got their way with a knife. Before the swan, before the dancer decommissioned them for good.

  
“I can’t,” Renee had told her evenly. Regretfully. “I won’t lie to you. But the truth is not easy.”

“Then promise me,” Allison had whispered when she pulled Renee inside the suite, locking the door in the same breath she’d pushed Renee against the frame and kissed her like the sky was falling down. “Promise me you’ll be alright.”

_Even if that’s not tonight._

The echo of what once was said rang as loud as that first time so many months ago. Like speaking to a ghost, like pleading with a memory. But Renee is flesh and blood and heartstrings under skin and Seth is but a flower bed to anoint the thawing ground.

“I am now,” Renee said, letting Allison lick into her mouth and take as much as she gave. “I’m here, you’re here. That’s all I need.”

Allison touched the side of Renee’s jaw gingerly, blue and yellow bruises a constellation of injury.

“Let me take care of you, then, for once, my swan,” was promised to the other earlier that evening but now it’s surely both. Mutual mitigation, symbiotic symphonies. Renee’s lips part without volition when the climax nears, Allison’s hands moving under her more sanctifying than the blood of God.

The sun rises without reproach. The floor to ceiling windows to the east corner welcome her rays as the two women hold each loosely, without urgency, without shame. Renee’s hair tickles Allison’s face when the former leans over her, running calloused fingers over perfect, imperfect skin.

“Alli,” Renee starts. Her eyes watch in reverence over the woman before her.

“My swan,” Allison returns. She reaches up and presses a thumb to Renee’s temple, Renee’s lashes fluttering shut almost unconsciously at the gesture before opening once more. “What is it?”

Renee thinks of the blood she scraped from under her nails. Of the graves she may as well have danced on for so long. Of OCRA, of the secrets, of everything held back from the people she holds most dear. Is this how Andrew felt for months, holding Day and the unspeakable diatribes just out of reach of the other like some excommunicable secret? 

“It’s just…” Renee allows the sight of the approaching dawn settling over Allison’s skin to captivate her attention before continuing. “It’s kind of cheesy, to be honest.”

Allison laughs lowly, thumb still pressing circles into Renee’s skin. “What kind are we talking about? Cheddar cheesy?”

“I was thinking Brie,” Renee says seriously, face straight.

“Do tell, then,” Allison urges. “Brie’s my favorite.”

Renee grins, head dipping into the ridge between Allison’s throat and collarbone. She places a quick kiss to the spot before raising back up and meeting Allison’s gaze. “You make me want to be a better person.”

Allison’s cheeks flush but the light in her eyes dance like the sun. “You’re wrong, Miss Walker. That’s mozzarella levels cheesiness.”

Renee laughs. “You wound me.”

“Never.” Without warning, Allison pushes up and flips Renee onto her back, switching positions like they were never in any other. She kisses the corner of Renee’s amused mouth and says, “Though I have been told I am an excellent source of inspiration.”

Renee hums. “Whoever said that deserves an award.”

“I’ll be sure to hang it on your wall.”

Allison can still see the mottled bruises on Renee’s face, her arms. It’s such an achingly familiar sight, Allison would curse the Fates if she believed in them. She can’t make decisions for her lovers. She can’t protect them from the world and her woes. But she can, if anything, make her own damn choice. Maybe she should’ve walked away from Seth long before the End came. Maybe she should never have let go. Reality is fickle when it comes to the what ifs, but Allison’s done with what’s done. She couldn’t save Seth. She may not be able to save Renee. But she’s over fearing the End, fearing what _could_ _be_ more than what _is_.

Because what _this_ is, is everything that makes sense. Hope and laughter and possibility and love and hearts beating in tandem despite what the world has thrown at both of them. The red dawn and roses blooming across the sky, comforting the survivors for what never survived. Remembering the memories that are now, are real, are _alive_ because why must we die before we are worth a thought?

Because it shouldn’t be the End that unites us.

It should be the Start.

V.

Lights above, blinding.

_Look away, look away. Don’t be afraid, Kevin Day._

An audience, perspiring.

_This is the way, this is the way. The way in which he came._

Penetrable noises, fading.

_As quiet as the Coastal Plains, not with bang—not with a bang._

Kevin inhales a breath and stares back into the mirror before him. At the face of all that he is, all that he has survived.

One more scene to go.

Someone to the left says ‘break a leg’. Another beats blush, red rage on his cheeks in passing. The Death of Creon is up next, with Antigone’s suicide scene currently in full swing on stage. As Kevin prepares, Alvarez and Falawn take turns seducing the masses with clever words and cheap tricks. Theater is no different than any business negotiation, any political inauguration. Theater is war. Theater is the battlefield where no one is safe, no one is out of reach of the puppet men and their razor teeth.

“Enter Haemon and Creon, stage left.”

The order is in his ear, in his throat. Kevin and Rubio, the senior that plays Creon (Seth, it was supposed to be _Seth_ , Seth would’ve played the King) obey and take their places. Lights fall and the auditorium is blanketed in darkness.

A beat. A breath.

A _boom_.

Cymbals clash from the pit. Someone pounds a drum, thrumming slowly at first but building in momentum, in fury. Antigone is dead and so must her kingdom fall too. Rubio takes stage center while the audience is blinded by black this time, no longer the glare. Kevin positions the prop sword he carries against his hip, righting the crimson crown upon his head. His suit, once blue, now resembles a bruise: violet and plum from the blood that’s soaked through. Fake, of course. But not to the audience. Not to the actors. Not to the world.

The drums crescendo, peak. A final _thrum_ and the orchestra halts. The last drum echoes across the space, the only sound left save for Kevin’s harsh breathing.

And then it begins.

“Traitor!” Rubio’s—Creon’s—voice calls, and the lights return in full force, illuminated red to signal the End.

“Father.” Kevin steps forward, shrouded in the blood haze. His hand grasps the weapon at his side, sheathed for now. He is no longer himself, or maybe he is more than he’s ever been. A character, an actor, a god playing man.

“Doth the killer returns,” Creon gestures to the crowd, “to fulfill his crime. Haemon: Speak you now—here I say, to dishonor the King.”

Who is the King, now? Kevin wonders. It once was Riko. It was his birthright. But Riko is gone, and The Family owns Kevin once more.

“My hands are bloodless, she kills herself, “ Haemon says. “Trust me with this truth now. But I do not weep, and know you mourn no loss for her sweet, sinful passing.”

“So you disrespect the dead?” Creon demands.

“I disrespect the wicked,” he returns and draws his sword. There’s a hush over the audience. Somewhere, in those black and red rows, watches Neil and Andrew. But Kevin is alone on this stage. He stands by himself, with memories and monologues to carry his weight. He didn’t have to go through with this, Abby had insisted. Jack knew the lines. Kevin need not burden himself with this production.

_My life is a production,_ Kevin had said.

But this won’t be my final Act.

Creon turns to Kevin, to Haemon. The former sneers in disgust but it’s not quite right. Kevin sees right through it even if the audience does not. Seth would’ve meant his disgust. That’s what Kevin loved, despised him for. That brutal honesty. That tender reproach.

“But I come not, Father,” he tells the man, “to disrespect you.” Creon raises a brow. “For you are not yet dead, and I am not yet through.”

“Through? What matter must you come through?”

Does it matter who the King is? Kevin has no use for Kings nor their shiny courts. He’s come to tear this madman down.

“I come to dethrone you.”

One day, maybe. One day he would tear down Ichirou as well. Patience, Andrew had urged. Give it time. Sow the seeds, prune the trust. Pledge loyalty and follow through. And the day, the moment Ichirou’s defenses fell just too short—

A Queen would ascend.

“A disappointment to the last,” Creon growled. “You traitor, attacking your father, accusing him.”

“Do I accuse you?” Haemon says. “Or do I reveal you, for what you are, and for what you have made? If you were not my father, I would have called you insane. But swear by this breath, you shall meet the gods from whence you came.”

Haemon barrels forward. The defenseless Creon can do nothing but send one final curse to the heavens as his son, his future, cuts him down. ‘Savagery is not history’ is but a fool’s claim in the eyes of all smote down by history’s wrath. This is all that history has been, all that history has known. Blood against blood, souls against souls.

Creon falls to the ground, pain an afterthought to the death coursing over him. What did Riko look like in his final moments? What did he say, if he spoke at all? What did he think, if he had a moment left to send his wretched spirit into the wind?

But most of all, the man on stage wonders, will it ever cross Ichirou’s mind to regret killing his brother when Kevin runs his sword into Ichirou’s backside?

“O harbor of Hades, hard to purify!” Creon wails where he lays dying before his killer. “Why, why do you ruin me? Herald of evil, of grief, you have done in a dead man anew! What new slaughter, my wife's doom, is heaped upon this ruin?”

“You heap your flaws upon yourself,” Haemon says, grasping the crown upon his head with his free hand and dropping it so that the circlet rolls away. “In death, you return the hope you’ve stole. I kill you not for what you’ve done. I kill for what you won’t.”

He raises the bloody sword in two hands, blade pointed down over the fallen King. Riko fell, Seth fell, must Kevin fall too? Must tragedy breed tragedy? Will fortune allow repose?

What else _is_ tragedy but this very moment: of the sad story of happy men who are overthrown by the blows of fortune?

All Seth wanted was to be happy.

“May the gods hold a mercy that I do not know.”

With these last words, Haemon plunges the blade into Creon once more and it’s agony. It’s tragedy. It’s a fatality that belongs to someone else. Because the man who is Haemon but really something more imagines that the man under him is not some costumed king but the real deal. Ichirou Moriyama, the leader of the man’s own long-winded production. The man who is Haemon but really so _much_ more thinks of every scar and every bruise and every memory laced with salt because of Ichirou’s touch. The man who is Haemon but really just a man holds a prop sword and delivers a fake death and wishes, with all his might, that the dead he knows were alive to see him now.

A Queen without her crown.

The man straightens. He is not Haemon anymore. He is Kevin Day with one last piece to deliver. One last act, but for the first time all night, what he says is no longer pretend. It’s like the ghosts of Seth and Riko and Kayleigh and everyone Kevin’s lost and has no right to ask that they are found (even though he wishes they would be) have taken position alongside him, a phantom court to herald in a new era. A Chorus of Corpses, a spectral exhibit. The audience sees only the man, and Kevin delivers what they came for.

_“Creon, my father, here on this sad height,_

_A tyrant to the last, I curse him no more._

_But you, you watchers, you unshaméd eavesdroppers,_

_Hear my final verdict, such sins he wrought—the score:_

_First, he taught us to use the dead as shawls_

_in the viscous winter escorting his arrival._

_Next, he taught us to forget the dead were dead,_

_our dead, and dead because of a wager_

_we did not consent him to make_

_with the thin-lipped savior_

_of his own pantomime.”_

Kevin closes his eyes and the memories bombard like an orphan seeking refuge. Matt grasping for Kevin’s hand at Seth’s funeral. Allison knocking on Kevin’s dorm door in the middle of the night because the shadows were heavy and the reality worse. His mother’s sweet singing, a Russian lullaby he could not understand before slipping into dreams. Riko’s skin, rotting away six feet under, or lost in the unmarked waves of a frozen sea. Lola Malcolm and her knife, Nicky crumpled in a hospital bed.

Kevin will not, he vows to himself, forget the dead. They are _his_ dead, his legion. His Court.

This isn’t about Creon. This isn’t about a play.

This is a coronation.

_“Third, he delivered on promises_

_that blew off the tops of homes in places_

_whose names he could not pronounce._

_Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown_

_forced to fit a quiet country that has no need_

_for a crown.”_

He does not need Ichirou Moriyama. He does not need the Family’s saving grace. And one day, one bloody, glorious day, the world will know his name unrestrained from the strings that have controlled him so long. The Court of Corpses will have their revenge.

Kevin doesn’t need a damned crown to do his job. He has Neil and Andrew. He has his Court, his memories. He has more power than an army. More sway than a god.

_“Under eroding circumstances,_

_this kingdom could become home._

_Under eroding circumstances_

_my gasp has become home enough,_

_love not consented to yet detected from beneath_

_my mindless right hand pressing its devotion_

_to ritual over my heart, flag above waving heaven_

_and blood into the smoke-diffused sky_

_I quake my way through anthems beneath.”_

The drums begin their rumble like an oncoming storm. He can’t see Andrew or Neil in the audience, but he imagines it’s only them watching him. Imagines the pain of Neil’s legacy, the Butcher’s son, bred to breed suffering. Imagines the burns on Andrew’s skin, his heart. And Kevin takes that pain and wraps it around his neck like a goddamn brand because he did not come this far for nothing.

He is the Harkening Day.

_“The crown is crooked._

_We straighten it with vote-vapid hands._

_The crown sits too heavy_

_for the king to carry on his own.”_

He is the Surviving Sun.

_“When it falls_

_‘O say can you see,’ strikes its inquisition._

_My knees, summoned to straighten at the hinges_

_permission most questionably opens from,_

_strike the earth with a kiss.”_

He is Enough.

_“Could I kneel my way to revolution?_

_Would that goad the king to unzip?”_

The cymbals clash. The drums cut off. Kevin raises his sword to the heavens and cries out, “ _Vive la nouvelle Reine!”_

A new silence extends like a burial shroud across the theater.

The curtain drops.

Behind it, the audience roars.

VI.

“You were fucking incredible.”

Kevin’s grin makes it hard to kiss Neil, but he manages. “Merci, je sais.”

“My Narcissus,” Andrew mutters.

Kevin releases Neil to kiss Andrew’s knuckles. “Hey to you too.”

The afterparty is a success. One of the organizers was able to book out the rooftop at Eden’s Twilight, a club near campus. There’s way too many drinks and just enough people to get lost in so Kevin plans to do just that. Get lost, that is, even for just one night. To dance, to push away the last week and six months from his mind for the next four hours.

He doesn’t want to think about the last afterparty he attended. When Seth was still alive. Seth had gotten wasted and danced on one of the tables at whatever club they’d booked last time, pulling Kevin and Allison with him to fuck around and, in general, make a goddamn fool of themselves. It’d been exhilarating, and it was only after the party was over and Seth disappeared that Kevin learned that the man had been trying to drink away the sudden death of his sister.

Death met Seth only weeks later.

But, point in case, Kevin _doesn’t want to think_ about that. So he steals whatever Andrew’s drinking, confirms it’s water, and downs the cup before Andrew can take it back.

“We should dance,” Kevin announces.

Neil raises a brow. “I don’t dance."

Kevin wipes a hand over his mouth and pushes the cup back into Andrew’s hands, who shoves it into a passing girl’s hold. She doesn’t even blink, continuing on with whoever she’s talking to. “Now you do.”

“What—“

Neil doesn’t get another word in. With a last _help me_ look over his shoulder, which goes promptly ignored from one said blonde, Neil gets dragged into the hoard of dancing people who more resemble a heated pool of thrashing bodies than anything coherent of _dance_.

“I really don’t—oh, we’re actually doing this.” Neil fumbles for purchase when Kevin spins around in the mob. He grabs onto Kevin’s shoulders but fails to find a beat with all the extra noise. “Remind me why I put up with you?” He shouts over the music and chatter.

“‘Cause I’m fucking incredible,” Kevin yells into Neil’s ear. He smirks when Neil pulls back with an unimpressed expression. “What? Your words.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Neil lets Kevin push their bodies closer, eyes falling shut momentarily at the close proximity. They’ve never been this open in public before with so many people around, but they don’t stand out any more than the other groups grinding and twisting together.

Kevin lifts Neil’s face in his and captures him in a kiss, the same time moving their bodies together to that incessant beat Neil can’t place. When Kevin starts to pull away, Neil follows, lips falling open for more.

“This is dangerous,” Neil says loud enough for Kevin to hear.

Kevin frowns. Neil reads his lips when he says, “What is?”

Neil pulls Kevin down to grind against him, eliciting a low shudder from the taller man. “You’re too addicting,” he growls in Kevin’s ear. “And you don’t need that type of ego boost.”

Kevin’s eyes darken when he kisses Neil again. “I’m not complaining.” He looks up for a moment as if searching for something then grins like a devil. “I don’t think Andrew is either.”

Neil turns his head, moving only so much that he doesn’t have to step away from Kevin. His fists clench around Kevin’s collar when he sees what Kevin must have. Andrew, at the edge of the crowd near the roof’s balcony, leaning against the bricked wall and watching them with hooded eyes while he nurses whatever new drink he’s picked up. There’s a healing scab along Andrew’s forehead from Columbia, and it twitches in acknowledgment when Andrew raises his brows in their direction. “Fuck.”

“You two will be the death of me,” Kevin vows lowly. When Neil turns back to him, Kevin isn’t looking at either of them, but out at the stars that shine above the party. He’s come to a halt, save for a soft sway in Neil’s hold.

“Is that so?” Neil wonders

Kevin blinks away the trance. His lips curl up when he meets Neil’s eyes, threading his hands with Neil’s and pulling them ever closer. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Neil opens his mouth, but whatever response he has is cut off by a loud voice calling Kevin’s name. Day turns to the voice and curses. “Who invited him? I told him de ne pas me parler."

“Who?”

Neil gets his answer when he sees Boyd pushing his way through the crowd. The man’s obviously on a mission, going so far as to wave off a couple of his friends who want to chat.

“Kevin!” Matt calls again, unsure whether to give up the fight of barreling through the rabble or praying Kevin comes over to him.

“He’s preoccupied!” Neil calls back. Matt cups a hand to his ear and makes a _what-did-you-say?_ face _._

Just when it looks like Matt’s about to take up the fight to push further through the crowd, Kevin groans before kissing Neil chastely. “Bully Andrew to dance. I’ll take care of this.”

“What if he bullies me back?” Neil quips. He doesn’t let go of Kevin’s jacket.

“Kick him,” Kevin says wisely.

Neil isn’t impressed. “And when has that ever worked?”

Kevin holds up a hand to Matt in a ‘one second’ gesture. “Didn’t say it would. But it’ll be fun to watch him chase you down.”

Neil’s lips thin and Kevin laughs. “Ten minutes, Day. Or I’ll chase _you_ down.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” With one last kiss and a cheeky wave to where Andrew still watches them, Kevin turns and makes his way over to where Matt was. The other man’s no longer there, but it doesn’t take long for Kevin to spot Matt standing a few meters over at the rooftop bar.

“How did you get an invite?” Kevin demands when he sidles up to his old friend. Old as in past, previous, gone. “I sure as hell didn’t put your name on the guest list.”

Matt glances briefly at Kevin out of the corner of his eye before motioning to the bartender. “Two Jerichoes,” he tells the young woman and she’s off with a nod before Kevin can protest. “You’re not the only person I know, Kev. Alli invited me.”

“You know I don’t drink anymore.” Kevin ignores Matt’s second comment.

“Trust me,” Matt mutters. Kevin notes how he doesn’t meet Kevin’s eyes fully even when he faces Day. “It’s not for you.”

“Oh.” Kevin swallows past the lump in his throat. When he looks out into the crowd, past the string lights and cocktails and partygoers, he can see a sliver of Neil and Andrew from where they stand. Neil hasn’t yet succeeded in bullying Andrew onto the dance floor, most likely due to how Andrew’s bullied Neil onto his lap. Kevin grins to himself, but then Alvarez and her girlfriend move onto the dance floor and block Kevin’s view. He frowns and turns back to where Matt’s stewing beside him.

“You needed something?” Kevin prods. His tone hasn’t eased, but he won’t run from this now that he’s here. At least, not for the first ten minutes. Anything after is fair game.

Matt finally looks up and meets Kevin’s gaze. For a moment Kevin thinks Matt will chicken out, but he doesn’t break eye contact despite how obviously uncomfortable he is. “I wanted to apologize.”

The woman who took Matt’s order is busy preparing his drinks so Kevin flags down another bartender to make him a Virgin Mary. A lifetime ago he would’ve asked for a shot or two extra of Tito’s. Now all he can hope for is a liberal amount of Tabasco.

“Well?” Kevin snipes when he’s ordered and Matt hasn’t continued. “I don’t have all night.”

Matt nods slowly, rubbing a hand over his chin. “I’m sorry for not telling you, Kevin. About The Family. About…all this shit. I’m sorry for breaking your trust in me.”

Kevin knows he just ordered, but fuck it he needs a glass to hide his face behind. What’s it been? Forty-five seconds? A minute? Neil better be counting.

“That’s your apology?” He says. “That’s how you make up a year and a half’s-worth of lying? Of faking some goddamn pleasantries to keep Ichirou happy?”

Matt’s eyes narrow, but his tone isn’t defensive. It’s just tired. “I’m not stupid, Kevin. I’m not expecting your forgiveness.”

“Then why am I here?” Kevin watches the first bartender slide Matt’s two drinks over. They’re bright blue, maraschino cherries adding a pop of dark red at the top. Matt snags the first glass and downs half of it in one go. “I’ve wasted enough time with you already, let’s not drag this out further.”

Matt slams the glass down. “That’s not fair, Kevin. I fucked up. We all did. But I never faked that we were friends.”  
  
“Friends?” Kevin sputters. “You think we were _friends_? You selling me out to The Family for months—“

“You think I had a choice?” Matt demands, voice hushed low so only they can hear. His dark eyes blaze under the string lights of the party. “You think Seth and I wanted any of this? We had our own families to think about. Our own fucking lives on the line.”

Kevin grimaces at the mention of Seth. He had his suspicions ever since he learned that Matt was part of all this too. When Seth’s part in this mess had been confirmed earlier that week, Kevin hadn’t known what to make of it. Now, he does. Now, it just throbs like a phantom limb.

“We all have choices,” Kevin says like the hypocrite he is.

“No, Kev.” Matt shakes his head sadly, fight replaced with grief. “We never did. _You_ never did. This whole idea of choice—“ Matt gestures vaguely with his glass, a low laugh tearing out of him like shattered glass—“is a sham. Free will? Was God’s first lie.”

The other bartender returns with Kevin’s drink. “And his second?” He throws the remark out snidely, not really caring nor expecting an answer.

But Matt, empowered by the alcohol or the rush of the week they’ve survived returns just as quickly, “That He could forgive a man like me.”

Kevin sips his drink. Fuck, yes. It’s practically a one to one ratio of tomato juice to Tabasco. His mouth already burns, or maybe that’s just his frustration. “I agree with Seth,” he muses. “Pity parties don’t suit you.”

Matt exhales a pent up breath. “It never lasts long.”

Kevin looks between the scarlet drink in his hand to the man beside him. They used to be brothers. Confidants. Kids lost together. When did the world—no, when did _they_ stop seeing each other that way? Was it really just this past eruption with The Family, or had the rift existed longer, invisible to the naked eye but ever-present, ever-growing day and night while they obliviously rode on? Maybe the rift started with Seth’s death, with Seth’s body hitting the hard dirt and splitting open under his broken bones.

With a sudden, frustratingly human shock, Kevin feels the tears well before he can blink them away. He can’t even blame it on the Tabasco. “I don’t know how to forgive you,” he tells Matt harshly. “Because there’s a part of me-a part of me that thinks that if I never do, if I never forgive you, I don’t have to move on. I don’t have to stop missing him.”

Matt’s hand clenches around the bar top, gaze shooting to Kevin’s.

“He should’ve been here,” Kevin chokes. He tents his elbows on the counter and folds his face between his hands, allowing one silent sob to clear his heart while Matt stands and moves to shield him from sight under the guise of privacy.

“I know, Kev,” Matt sighs, wiping at his own face. “Fuck, I know.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” He continues, gently touching Kevin’s shoulder in shared solitude before moving back once more. “You don’t have to stop missing him, either. He was a fucking bastard.” Matt laughs wetly. “Someone has to remember that.”

“I have to forgive you some day,” Kevin moans into his hands. When he pulls back, his eyes are puffy and red, but by force of will he’s managed to stop crying. “My mom will haunt me if not.”

Matt doesn’t know what to think of that so he decides not to comment on it. “Well…if you can’t forgive me now, start with Seth. At least his memory. We’re—“ Matt cuts off with another sigh, struggling for words. “If we could have picked another path, Kev, know we would have. But we can’t. You know as well as I do that our lives are not our own. We’re all stuck inside our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out. We scratch and we claw, but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch.” Matt tries to smile when Kevin looks at him, but it breaks off at the edge and falls into the sea. “Some of us, like Seth…deliberately step into those traps. We’d do anything to get out.”

How much emotion can a person handle in one week, one day, one life before they’re weighed down too much to stand? “I was born into mine,” Kevin exhales. “Sometimes I can trick myself—Sometimes I think I don’t mind it anymore.”

“And the other times?”

“I see the trap for what it is. Feels like Armageddon every time.” Kevin raises the glass to his lips with a shrug. He’s not defeated, but trudging on despite the tide. Tired, but stubborn. Survival—the greatest act of rebellion.

“But not today,” Matt murmurs. Kevin raises a brow to him in question. “The world isn’t ending today, Kevin.” He lifts his mostly drunk glass and holds it forward for Kevin to clink his against, which Kevin does after a second of hesitation. “I know I’m in no position to make demands, but promise me something.”

“What?”

Matt leans in when he speaks, only the slightest whisper possible to be heard over the noise. “Do you remember what we promised each other? After Seth died?”

Kevin stares unblinking at Matt, mind racking. Matt doesn’t give him much time to think because he continues, “We promised we wouldn’t let the world fuck us up. You and me. We wouldn’t be another failed Legacy.”

Despite the drink, Kevin’s mouth feels dry. “I thought you were drunk when I told you that.”

“I know,” Matt smiles ruefully. “I was, probably. But I didn’t forget.” He looks quickly at the ground in thought before meeting Kevin’s mournful eyes once more. “Will you make me a new promise, even though I fucked the last one up?

“If you do decide to forgive me…Promise you won’t until we can give Seth justice. Promise you won’t forgive me until you’re the King I’m kneeling for.”

Kevin considers the weight of those words. By all accounts, it’s treason, plain and simple. It’s disloyalty. It’s execution-worthy.

It’s…

Slightly off.

“I can’t promise you that.” Matt’s face falls. Kevin, despite the ache in his chest, feels a sad smile itch at his lips. “But I can promise I’ll reconsider when you bow to kiss the ring of your new Queen.”

Matt pulls back slowly, lashes raising. Something like hope flits across his face, and Kevin has to look away before it drowns him.

It has to be ten minutes by now, or close. Kevin doesn’t want the rest of his drink. Matt, without a word, finishes it for him. The familiar gesture unroots something hard and knotted in Kevin’s chest.

It isn’t closure, exactly.

It’s like a fresh start.

VII.

They say we are asleep until we fall in love.

When Kevin leaves Matt at the bar with one last nod of understanding, it doesn’t take him long to find who he’s searching for. Kevin sees Andrew and Neil moments before they see him, and the seconds between Kevin going still before the sight of heaven’s fallen is like the seconds spent blinking one’s eyes awake to the onslaught of sunrise.

This isn’t closure, he thinks again.

This is how it feels to continue on. To feel the salty waves attack your chest but you push back regardless, as if skin and bone is a worthy match for the sea.

Andrew sees Kevin before Neil does, which is impressive seeing as Andrew’s got his tongue halfway down Neil’s throat. Kevin has half the mind to call them indecent, but then again. This is a Foxborough party. If the current record has any say, someone will be naked soon enough.

Animals, the lot of ‘em.

“Did I miss anything?” Kevin wonders as he perches himself against the wall next to the pair. “Or did you become exhibitionists in the ten minutes I was gone?

“Nine, actually,” Neil has the chance to say before Andrew presses his thumb over Neil’s lips. Neil bites at the digit.

“Are we done here?” Andrew says without ornament.

Neil frowns. “I wasn’t, no.”

Kevin stifles a laugh when Andrew’s expression darkens. “I meant with the atrocious excuse for a party. Idiot,” he tacks on.

“Oh. Well, uh. Yeah, if Kev’s done.”

Neil flickers his gaze to the man and the latter nods. “I should stay but…” how could he when Andrew and Neil are looking at him like that? Like Kevin is worthy of such devotion. Kevin has his whole life ahead to waste on parties and celebrations, namely a very special one once he dethrones the Imposter. But right now? His stars demand his attention, and he they. “I don’t want to anymore, actually.”

Neil looks between Kevin and Andrew. “Well, chego zhe my zhdom? Let’s go.”

Kevin allows himself one last look at the party, all the people celebrating another successful show. Technically, there’s one last performance of Antigone on Sunday evening, and the underclassmen perform their production tomorrow and the following afternoon. But today has been a breakthrough in more ways than one way. Kevin peers up at the sky above, bright and illuminated with a million constellations. The moon is a sliver, _waning crescent_ some unmarked memory from his grade school years tell him.

Matt was right. The world isn’t ending today.

Depending on who you ask, it’s just starting.

“Let’s go,” Neil repeats. He tugs on Kevin’s sleeve, once, before dropping the fabric and following Andrew’s lead toward the exit. They have to push through the crowd and handle the flux that comes with waiting for an Uber. By the time they arrive at Neil’s apartment, Kevin’s fatigue has morphed into quiet reverence for the present moment he’s been gifted. Neil pets the cats in greeting (“They were more surprised to see me come back than I was,” Neil had joked earlier that week after Columbia) but when Kevin stills in the entryway, Neil and Andrew exchange a look.

“Talk to us, Kev,” Neil says. Not gently per se, but with a firm patience Kevin knows how to engage with.

“This whole week…” Kevin leans against the wall beside the front door. There’s a boring abstract painting hung up that Kevin can bet money Neil didn’t buy himself, but kept on the wall as filler space like some dry inside joke to himself. “There’s times I think I’m still in that trunk. Still dreaming. And any moment I’m gonna wake up and this won’t be real.”

Andrew’s gaze turns vacant where he’s stood between Kevin and the couch Neil’s petting the cats on. His hands clench at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight to protect Day against Kevin’s demons. But he can’t do that for Kevin. Not this time. This is the Queen’s battle now, and for maybe the first time, Kevin’s beginning to realize he has a fighting chance.

It’s Neil who speaks. “Pretty fucked up your subconscious left you us for company.”

Kevin laughs, a mixture of humor and tired relief in the sound. “Thing is…I think I’m finally waking up. And I’m not in that trunk.”

The words are like a subliminal command and instantly, Andrew’s fists unclench. He and Neil look at each other again before Neil’s rising to his feet. He turns the corner of the couch and replaces the hand on Dasha’s back to Kevin’s shoulder.

“Kevin…” Neil no more than whispers. To Day, he might as well be screaming. _Overwhelm me. “_ You’ve been awake the whole time.”

Time is a tidal wave as Neil’s lips meet his. It’s connect-the-dots; it’s paint-by-numbers; it’s finish the puzzle; it’s—

Enough.

Closed blinds, calloused hands, dried dish-ware on the counter. Kevin takes in the sight of Neil’s apartment as Neil guides him away from the wall to sit on the couch next to Andrew. Signs of life and beautiful mundanity and oh so human.

The certainty hits Kevin. Damn Coeus and Pallas Athene, celestial bastards—he _understands_.

For so long, for far too long, he was incomplete. Alone, with others, with Seth or Matt or Riko, hell—even with Andrew or Neil, it didn’t matter. He was missing a piece of himself; torn in two, in three, in five million infinite ways. Others can help try to find those missing pieces but at the end of the day—no, at the end of the goddamn _world_ , it is only ourselves who can accept those missing pieces for what they are, or fashion a new piece to put together. Kevin’s been awake, he’s been in love, he’s been alive the whole time but—

He wasn’t complete. Searching for some useless crown when it was the shards of his soul he needed instead. It took going to hell and back twice over for Kevin to realize this, accept this.

And it’s not Neil or Andrew or both at once that showed him .

It was—.

“ _Kevin_.”

Vicious, unyielding, unrepentant cycles broken—

It’s enough.

—Truth and tribulations set free—

“You’re _enough.”_

—Tsunamis and earthquakes and the fires of hell all battling for dominance. Choirs of angels and cherubs and seraphs all crying unto heaven—

_It doesn’t hurt anymore, it doesn’t hurt, it’s right, and it’s good, and it’s_ enough _, it’s complete._

And this is how it starts.

_(This is the way the world ends)_

Neil pulls Kevin onto his lap, lips finding lips finding heart.

This is the way it begins.

_(This is the way, the godforsaken way the world ends)_

Andrew burns as always, hands everywhere, all teeth and tongue and righteousness.

This is the song of the siren, the applause of the damned.

_(Not with a bang)_

Kevin trembles, a heartbeat away from the climax. He barely makes a sound. Nothing can be heard, nothing—

but

a

whimper.

At the finale of one world rises another.

The curtain falls. The lights extinguish.

It is so, so quiet.

Rebirth.

* * *

_**~Fin~** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK U ALL DONT FORGET TO READ THE MINI EPILOGUE MWAH ---->>>
> 
> i would also like to give the biggest thanks and adoration to: sophoklesworld, redskiesandsailboats, this_little_lighthouse, justwhatialwayswanted, dil_aakhir_tu_kyun_rota_hai, Mmcclintock, xBrindle and all the other souls for always sharing ur thoughts on the updates. I can confidently say yall have inspired this fic in more ways than one <33 
> 
> Chapter title from Hozier’s shrike
> 
> Some notes about the poems used in this chapter: poem in part I is by Dylan Thomas. Various lines in part V from the play are directly taken or adopted from Antigone, while some lines are made up for this fic. The longer, last Poem used (except for the first stanza) in part V is taken from “Order of Events” by Phillip B. Williams and is one of the most powerful pieces I have had the pleasure to read so far this year, I seriously recommend reading the entire piece and if you have a chance, please check out William’s other works, he is amazing. 
> 
> References to:  
> The Hollow Men, by TS Eliot (last stanza minutely altered to say friend instead of father)  
> Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas  
> The lakes, Taylor Swift  
> Alice in Wonderland//Melanie Martinez, Mad Hatter  
> Richard Siken, Little Beast  
> Order of Events by Phillip b Williams  
> Antigone, the play by Sophocles  
> Psycho (1960)  
> Audre Lord  
> The Consolation of Philosophy, Boethius  
> Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812
> 
> Translations:  
> Adieu, mon tempête: goodbye, my storm  
> Memoria letale quam momentum est: Memory is more lethal than moment  
> le sens du drame: French idiomatic equivalent for “a flair of the dramatic”  
> reconnaissance: recognition  
> Mon coeur: my heart  
> Vive la nouvelle Reine! Long live the new queen  
> Merci, ja sais: Thanks, I know  
> de ne pas me parler: not to talk to me  
> chego zhe my zhdom (чего же мы ждём): what are we waiting for?


	28. Rage Against the Dying of the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.”  
> ~ Albert Camus
> 
> “If the world wants you, it's gonna keep on coming till it gets you. And who am I that can fix it? Who am I that can change this if the world wants it so badly? Who am I to stop the end of the world if it keeps on coming?”  
> ~ Patrick Ness, The Knife of Never Letting Go
> 
> “The thing about the end of the world was this: either everything mattered, or nothing did.”  
> ~ Farah Naz Rishi, I Hope You Get This Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: mentions of alcohol, drug use, character has amoral/unhealthy viewpoint on another character’s efforts to become sober. 
> 
> disclaimer: I have nothing against math or comm majors ;lwksjdhgjd

Seth Gordon laid his head atop his crossed arms on the pool’s ledge and lazily watched the two men bicker in the water.

“I’m not _saying_ I’d want to live forever,” Kevin griped for the second time in the past minute. “I’m just talking hypothetical.”

“Well, I hope not,” Matt said to Kevin’s first statement. He ran his hands through his already drenched hair before taking the blunt from Kevin. “The world can only handle so much natural disaster for so long.”

“Oh, fuck _off_ , Mattie.”

Seth snickered into his arms. Wreck’s fourth floor was empty save for the three, and their mindless quarrels and loud laughter filled the cavernous space. Seth propped himself more fully on the pool’s ledge with his left arm and kicked his feet out in the water, sore muscles from practice rejoicing from the reprieve. If only he hadn’t called it quits with Alli yesterday. She gave the best massages.

No bother. They’d probably work things out again by Friday. Like they always did.

“Forever’s too long to live,” Seth added sagely. He accepted the stick Matt passed to him and took another hit. The soft high helped his shoulders loosen, anxieties dampen for the time being. “Even a million years. That’s so much _time_.”

“A million years,” Kevin repeated slowly. He submerged his whole body into the water before surfacing with the same contemplative expression. “No, wait. That works.” He turned to Matt. “Does a hypothetical million offend _you_?”

Matt offered an exaggerated eye roll and Seth chuckled. “I love when you’re all ‘suck it, sobriety’,” Seth hummed. “You’re funnier this way, Day.”

Kevin was unimpressed. “I’m taking things slow, asshole. ‘drew says I should give things up in stages. Helps the translation or…” he rubbed his eyes, thinking. “No, transition. Helps the transition better.”

Seth sighed. A few months ago, Kevin decided to start some personal resolution to go sober like, _completely_. In Seth’s opinion, it was a waste of time. Everyone relapsed at some point, right? That’s what Gordon Senior had to say on the matter, at least. And for Seth, it always turned out true.

Whatever. If it gave Day some semblance of control, especially with his Vasa…Visigal…Visavogal Symphony…oh, whatever the fuck it was, more power to him. But every now and then Kevin would reward himself for a week’s worth of work with a couple hits or a shot while he eased off the brutal habits he’d picked up over the years.

So much easier to handle, to Seth. Dealing with a slightly buzzed Kevin (especially while buzzed himself) was like putting on shades before staring directly into the sun.

“Shuddup. I’ll take a million. _Hypothetically_ ,” Matt groused. He massaged a sore muscle in his bicep, expression ruminative, before his eyes lit up with an idea. “Okay, I got it.”

Kevin frowned. “Already?”

“Yeah, yeah. Hear me out.” Matt moved until his back was against the pool’s side next to Seth. He held up his hands in a _listen-to-this_ gesture and said, “If I could live for a million years, I’d collect a lot of my hair. Maybe shave it off, it’ll grow back within that time anyway. And I could call up a doc—maybe Aaron—and have some of my blood frozen, right?” Kevin and Seth nodded along. Made total sense so far. “And I’d bury it. The hair, blood, and all. Like really far in the ground.” More nods. Seth was intrigued. “And in a few hundred thousand years are so, I’ll dig it all up again and pretend like I made some huge discovery.”

Kevin moved a hand to his mouth in thought. “Interesting.”

But Matt wasn’t finished. “And then I’ll show what I ‘discovered’—“ he made finger quotes—“to the scientists or whoever’s still in charge. And guess what?”

“What?” Seth said.

“The scientists will discover that the D-N-A in the samples…” Matt paused for dramatic effect and Seth and Kevin leaned forward in anticipation, “is the _exact_ _same_ as _my_ D-N-A."

Kevin and Seth audibly gasped. Seth palmed his forehead. “Bro…”

“They’ll put you in a museum,” Kevin groaned, sounding jealous.

Seth wasn’t even aware of Matt taking the blunt from his hand when he looked at Kevin. “What if they don’t have museums in the future?” He wondered seriously.

Kevin scoffed and slapped the water. “Then what would be the point?”

The other two snickered and Matt said, “Okay, okay. Tell us your vision of the future. What would you do with a million years?”

“Oh, easy,” Kevin answered automatically. “I’d get a degree in every single field.” He paused. “Even the stupid ones. Like math and, I don’t know. Communications.”

Seth stared at Kevin like Kevin had said he’d slept with Seth’s grandmother. Matt just laughed again. “What the hell’s the point of _that_?” Seth demanded.

“Um, duh.” Kevin gestured like it was obvious. “I’d objectively be the smartest person alive. With the receipts to prove it.”

Matt immediately stopped laughing. “Oh my god.” He and Seth exchanged a look.

“You’re right,” Matt murmured at the same time Seth said,”You fucking _nerd._ ”

Kevin muttered some form of a response and splashed the two with a kick of water. “Whatever. Your turn, G.”

Seth was busy clearing his vision from the spray when Kevin asked. “Give me a minute, _connard_.”

“You don’t need a minute,” Matt said, sidling closer to Seth on the wall and laying his arm around Seth’s shoulders. Seth glared at him and unsuccesfully tried to shake him off, but Matt just pulled Gordon closer with a merciless laugh while Seth squirmed. “First thought, best thought.”

“Ah, Turing,” Kevin pointed a knowing finger in Matt’s direction.

“No, I don’t think so.” Matt shook his head slowly. “Ginsberg. Same first name though. So you’re close.”

Kevin made a face. “How do I _always_ mix them up?” He muttered.

Seth rolled his eyes and stopped trying to escape Matt’s grip. “Fine, okay. If I had a million years…” he hummed, trailing off. This time, neither of the other men pushed when they saw Seth turn serious.

Finally, Seth said softly, “I think I’d go insane.”

Matt cocked his head. “And?”

Seth shrugged. “That’s it. I’d go mad. No one’s made to live that long.” Kevin decided not to repeat the _hypothetical_ quality of the situation as Seth continued. “I mean, a million years ago—that’s, like, when the first humans appeared. In another million? Hell, I might be the last guy left. That’s so…”  
  
He wanted to say _lonely_ , but Seth wasn’t the type of guy to openly lament his fear of solitude. So instead he finished lamely, “It would suck.” He shrugged again, shoulders scraping Matt’s chest. “A million years. That’s more tangible than forever. And I don’t want forever.”

“What do you want?” Kevin asked.

Seth blinked at their reflection in the water. Wasn’t the answer obvious? He was just another speck of dust in the cosmos, wanting what every other speck of dust desired. To be settled. To be found. To be, as simple and as weak as it sounds—to be happy.

“I don’t know,” Seth whispered at their reflections. He smoothed a hand over the water and watched their forms ripple.

Kevin pressed further. “How long, then, would you want to live?”

Seth lifted his gaze from the reflecting pool and into the eyes of a man he wished he could call a friend. Maybe in another life. Maybe in another world. “Until it’s worth it. Until everything is just…worth it.”

_Until I’m happy._

Kevin’s face broke out into a dopey smile. He lifted his pinky finger out to Seth in the water. “We’ll do you right, G. You and me and Mattie. We’re gonna make it worth it. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Seth refrained from mentioning you’re supposed to say _pinky promise_ if you’re going to hold out a—never mind. “Make what worth it?” He asked, resting the back of his head against Matt’s shoulder.

Kevin answered easily. “The world and every goddamn pearl in the sea.”

Seth tried to glare but it fell short. “And how exactly can you promise that?”

Kevin leaned closer in the water like he was about to share an important secret. “I can’t. But I will anyway. Because someone’s gotta remember us, and that’s what makes life worth it. To be remembered by those who matter.”

Seth felt something thick and heavy lodge in his throat then and he decided to call it quits with the blunt when Matt passed it back to him. He threw it to the side on the pool’s ledge. “Who says you matter, Day?” He said to fill the space, rather than the emotion suddenly welling up. Damn drugs. Maybe Kevin wasn’t too far off about that sobriety.

But Kevin wasn’t deterred. He smiled and said, “Who doesn’t?”

It sounded self-centered, but what Kevin meant was much more simple. Who _doesn’t_ matter?

“In the grand scheme of things, in the whole wide landscape of the universe, who’s to say that no one matters? Maybe none of us do.” Kevin grinned like the thought was funny. “And if that’s the case, if no one matters at all, then we’re all on the same level playing field.” A shrug. “Which is to say, we all unequivocally matter. Your existence, your breath, your crooked teeth and messy hair is just as important as the invention of fire, as the rotation of the earth. Your happiness matters as much as the man on the moon. Your very memory matters as much as the sun that rises in the east and sets in the west.”

In that moment, Seth vowed to never let Kevin get high again.

“Who doesn’t matter? That’s a question for the matterless to answer. And as far as I know, there’s no such thing.” Kevin leaned back then, gaze cloudy but eyes so bright it burned. Seth could only blink in fascination, and wonder if the cafeteria would still be open by the time they left Wreck. He was starving.

“There is no such thing as a matterless thing is like…a paradox,” Matt murmured. Kevin huffed.

“I was having a _moment_ , Boyd.”

“I’ll show _you_ a moment.”

“That doesn’t even make sense—hey!”

As the sounds of Matt dragging Kevin deeper into the water and Kevin splashing in retaliation filled Wreck’s fourth floor, Seth gazed up at the rays of moonlight filtering through the floor-to-cieling windows. Particles of dust and light and translucent matter drifted through space like a beacon for Seth’s eyes to follow home.

_Maybe_ , Seth thought, watching Kevin take the upper hand over Matt and pull the latter underwater, laughter bouncing off the arched walls,

_Maybe someday I’ll be worth it._

A soft, private smile danced on Seth’s lips. Matt choked out a plea of surrender, waiting until Kevin backed off to pounce once more on Day.

“Traitor!” Kevin screamed, falling back in the water.

Seth closed his eyes.

_Maybe I’ll be happy soon._

And that was all that mattered, really.

That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! I am on Tumblr at @ravens-play-exy-too. Now to go sleep for the next year skewdhksf

**Author's Note:**

> thank you as always for reading and thank you to everyone who has supported this, helped me with translations, and sent me über helpful info into the particular niches I was not educated on. you can find me on tumblr @ ravens-play-exy-too


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